Pandora's Box
by Rap541
Summary: Alternate Universe - what if Matthew had been captured by the Germans in the war and a near identical spy assumed his life while he was shipped off to a German POW camp in one of Germany's African colonies? What if he escaped and slowly made his way to a British colony in 1922? Wouldn't that make a delightful mess of things? :D
1. Chapter 1

Author's note – This is kind of a major stretch as far as plausibility goes and I sense it would take a lot of time to truly let this play out but this chapter is basically me needing to at least try the idea.

 _February 1923_

"Richard, I have a small favor to ask of you. Possibly several."

Sir Richard Carlisle braced himself but only a little. Geoffrey Bull, Scotland Yard Senior Inspector, was an old friend from his school days. An old friend whose favor probably didn't involve asking for a loan, Geoffrey had married well. Richard gestured for him to take a seat as he closed the door to his newspaper office. A favor could mean anything and although Geoffrey was one of his more upright friends, it still paid to be cautious.

"I can't guarantee anything," Richard said genially as he took a seat behind his desk. "But I admit I am curious to know what I could help you with."

Geoffrey smiled. "We've drifted apart since school, I know, but I do still keep an eye on my old school friends." His expression grew more serious. "You were engaged to be married to Lady Mary Crawley, during the war."

An odd place for Geoffrey to go but he was willing to play along. All things considered, it was for the best that he hadn't married Lady Mary. He had been angry, and then he had gone to France and met Claudette in Toulouse, and that pretty French maiden and artist was now his lovely wife. It was rather nice to have a wife that looked up to him as a man. Lady Mary Crawley at heart was a snob, while Claudette was happy to have an English husband with a wealthy business and a minor title. Even better, he loved her and in that love realized that he was better off away from Mary. They already had a baby son and another child was on the way. "I was. We broke our engagement in 1919 and she then married her cousin Matthew Crawley, her father's heir."

"Did you ever meet Matthew Crawley?" Geoffrey asked, his eyes intent. "Before his… severe injuries in May of 1918?"

Oh, do I smell a story, Richard wondered. "I did. There were some dinners at Lord Grantham's estate when he was assisting with recruitment in 1916 and 1917." He hesitated. There was a story brewing, he could see it in his old friend's eyes, but the engagement had been broken years ago. He was happily married. As much as he had once wanted revenge on Mary, he hadn't acted when the wounds were fresh, and truth be told, he rather thought that Matthew Crawley had been the real loser in the mess. "What is this about, Geoffrey? The poor chap is dead and gone, and I can't believe you're investigating him for some past crime…" Matthew Crawley, Richard thought with no small amount of amusement, was the sort of fellow that breathed life into the saying 'only the good die young'. A bit of a prig, and besotted with Mary, but an honorable decent fellow. It still surprised Richard that the man had been a lawyer.

Geoffrey shook his head. "When you first met him, in 1916, did he have any… identifying marks or traits? Did he seem to change after his injury in 1918?"

That's interesting, Richard thought. "I can't say I ever noticed any visible scars. And yes, he changed after being crippled and told he'd never walk or bear children. He was bloody near catatonic from depression for a good long while. He told his fiancé to leave him. He told Lady Mary that the only reason he tolerated her was because she was already engaged to me and therefore wouldn't ruin her life being attached to a cripple."

Geoffrey sighed. "You really didn't know the man well, then. Before 1918?"

"No. I've satisfied your curiosity. Please satisfy mine. What is this about? I'll help you any way I can, as long as I get first crack at the story." It was touchy if it swirled around his former fiancé but he couldn't help but sense that there was a story, a big story.

"I was trying to spare the family some pain, but I realize now that this will need to be a giant public mess." Geoffrey took a deep breath and let it out. "I got a letter from Lord Philip Atherton, about six months ago. Or rather, Lord Atherton posted a letter to his lawyer who sent it to the Yard because he was worried that Lord Atherton was being lied to. Lord Atherton, if you didn't know, has a large estate in Kenya where he farms coffee of all things. He wrote that a few months prior, an Englishman claiming to be Captain Matthew Crawley had just about crawled onto his lands, claiming he'd been captured by the Germans in early 1918 and transported to their African colony in Namibia. He was locked up in a diamond mine and forced to work for them and eventually broke out and spent literally years crossing the veldt, trying to get to a British colony. He turned up on Atherton's farm and told his story to Lord Atherton."

Richard smiled. Such tales had occurred before and Geoffrey was wise to investigate, especially considering Matthew Crawley's rather dramatic public death in late August of 1921. "And all things considered, you're investigating someone making an outlandish claim. Is this really so difficult?"

He was surprised and intrigued to see Geoffrey nod. "I was like you," Geoffrey admitted. "It felt like a con game was afoot. But there's too many things that don't make sense. This sort of con, especially in Africa, plays out with the con man making his claims and fleecing everyone and then running off."

"Agreed," Richard said easily. "Typically, they beg for help and promise that whoever helps them will be paid by their benefactor, in this case Lord Grantham, as soon as he knows the joyous news that his heir is alive. Did it not go that way?"

"It didn't. For starters, the supposed Matthew Crawley merely asked for food, water, and passage to England once he'd regained his health." Geoffrey gave him a nod. "Second, per Lord Atherton, the man has a fortune of diamonds, back wages he called it, that he took from his captors. He's here in London now, with Lord Atherton, and I am assured by the diamond brokers that this man has no need to beg for help, or to lie about who he is. And third…." Geoffrey signed again. "We took his fingerprints and compared them to the ones Captain Crawley gave when he took a commission in 1914. They're a match. For most people, this would be enough to declare him. I was hoping you could confirm or deny it by citing a scar or physical quirk… I didn't want to put it to the family if I didn't have to…"

Richard tried not to show how shocked he was. "Do you really think he's Matthew Crawley? If he's Crawley then who was the chap who had the broken spine?"

"A German," Geoffrey said. "Crawley has the Viking look, blond and blue eyed to a fault. His story is that he was captured, that he was mocked by the German officers for looking like one of their junior officers, and then knocked out. When he woke up, he was chained up on a steamship headed for Africa. Crawley only got the last name of the German, von Rostenburg. We're investigating it now. The concept as far as Crawley knew, and he was hardly welcomed into the planning, was that this von Rostenburg would take his place and spy… It clearly didn't work out that way. I just… I was hoping you'd known Crawley better." Geoffrey's expression grew pensive as he leaned back in the chair. "If this wasn't to do with the peerage, I'd let the chips fall where they may. I've done the right thing. I've questioned if this was a con man, and fingerprints don't lie. But… Lord Grantham is a peer and this will affect his family a great deal. And worse for poor young Crawley. I was hoping you could help soften the blow." Geoffrey sighed. "Can you imagine? This German fellow wasn't much of a spy but he managed to fool everyone in the man's family. What a masterful scam artist that one was…"

"More likely desperate," Richard offered. "There was no faking the injury, the man couldn't feel a thing below his waist. As Matthew Crawley, he'd be yes, a cripple, but a rich cripple with a title, while if he confessed that he was a German spy… with the war lost, why not take the best chance left? And then he regained the ability to walk, a miracle really… If he had nothing to go back to, and thought the real Matthew Crawley was dead, why not take his place?" And poor young Crawley was the man with the real story, Richard thought, a story worth publishing. Separated from his family and his country, enslaved in a German diamond mine in Africa, escaping and running across Africa for years. That sort of tale, especially with a German spy stealing his life in England, serialized, sold papers and books and that meant he needed to consider the favor Geoffrey was asking even if it seemed almost a farce. "Crawley and I were hardly close chums, Geoffrey, and I certainly can't confirm or deny any identifying marks he might have had. As for softening the blow… When I say we weren't close, I mean it. He was a nice enough fellow who apparently didn't ruin my engagement to Lady Mary." An amusing irony, all things considered. "I do remember him as a friendly enough fellow. Surely there are a few friends closer to him you could bring in to break the bad news?"

"That is the second problem," Geoffrey admitted. "Everyone he's named as a friend either died in the war or died in the influenza epidemic. I've been trying to find someone that isn't family to break the news to him that his family was so utterly fooled by a stranger that they've been mourning his death by car accident in 1921."

It was the sort of thing that could drive a man mad, Richard thought. Which made the story even more saleable. "Poor fellow," he said to Geoffrey, already considering his options. "He was an honorable sort, Matthew. No doubt he spent this whole time dreaming of the reunion with his family. If I am the closest thing to a compatriot you could find, then I am glad to talk with him. I certainly know most of the main events." And all the really awkward events revolve around the German interloper the Crawleys welcomed to their family with open arms. It was going to be a thing of beauty to witness. Unpleasant for poor Matthew Crawley, the one member of the Crawley family who hadn't actually wronged him, but Richard couldn't deny hoping he could see the look on Lady Mary's face when she found out

0o0o0o0

Matthew tried to fight the urge and then finally gave up and walked over to the fire place, holding out his hands to soak up the heat from the fire. "I'm sorry," he said to his host, Lady Atherton, Lord Atherton's elderly sister who still maintained a home in London. Philip had needed to deal with some issues with the coffee markets, so he said, Matthew suspected that the man was dealing with some sort of situation pertaining to his house guest, and had left him with the older woman to deal with the authorities. He could hardly complain about it or about anything, Philip had saved and helped him in so many ways. "I just can't seem to get warm here. I know, intellectually, that it's not even that cold but…" He shivered as he spoke and fought the urge to cough.

"Your body still expects the African sun," Lady Atherton said easily. "You'll be fine in a few weeks. It takes a bit to acclimate. You won't feel it so harshly in a month or so."

"I hope so," Matthew said, grateful to shake off some of the chill that had enveloped him. Being in London was a miserable sort of joy. Somehow he'd forgotten how damp and cold it was when he was sweating in the mines or wandering in the desert, tiredly waiting under a baobab tree for the blistering sun to retreat for the day.

The real problem wasn't the cold, he thought as he warmed his hands, it was knowing, deep down, that Philip and Inspecter Bull were keeping something from him. He wasn't worried about proving his story, he was telling the truth, and the diamonds he'd stolen from his captors guaranteed people would take the story seriously and not dismiss him as some pretender to Robert's title. Bull had been suspicious of just that, and then flabbergasted at the finger print results. Matthew had agreed to having his identity established first, before he upended the lives of his family but he was getting frustrated and worried. He had been missing for six years, the war had ended. His family most likely assumed he was dead. He had agreed with Philip that starting with the authorities was best. It was best to get it out of the way. But he was already a week in London and there was no word about his family. He was beginning to fear the silence. It's been six years, he reminded himself. For all that happened to you, so much could have happened to your family.

When Philip entered the library, with a long face, followed by Inspector Bull, looking equally unhappy, followed by a third man that was a bit familiar, he decided to not pull any punches. "Gentlemen… I respect how careful and kind you've both been in establishing my existence to the authorities but it's obvious there's some bad news you're not telling me." He braced himself. "I'm a grown man, and it's been six years." He went for the obvious. "Has my mother died? Is that it?"

Philip smiled, his expression still worried. "No, Matthew, I'm told she's quite well. But you're right, there's some news that you'll find upsetting. Let me prepare us all some drinks." He gestured the familiar looking man. "I believe you know Sir Richard Carlisle?"

Is this where the bad news begins. Matthew wondered. The man looked older, and had the same sly, and not entirely friendly look on his face that Matthew recalled. He hadn't disliked the man, but it had surprised him that Mary had agreed to marry him. "Yes, I do recall. Sir Richard was engaged to my cousin, Lady Mary." He tried to smile. "Though with all the time that has passed, I imagine you must have married after all this time."

"Well," Sir Richard said easily as Philip handed him a drink, "Perhaps that is a good place to start. As it happens, Lady Mary eventually broke her engagement with me and… married someone else."

A surprise, an awkward surprise, but the man didn't seem terribly upset by it. In fact, Sir Richard seemed more amused than anything else. "What a shame."

"It was for the best, all things considered." Richard gave Philip and Bull a surprisingly harsh look. "Perhaps this is the sort of situation that demands a certain amount of bluntness. Matthew, do you mind if I call you Matthew?"

Matthew shook his head. They hadn't been so familiar when they last met, but he was hardly in a position to complain, especially since Richard seemed willing to break the silence. "Not at all."

"Then, Matthew, why don't you sit down and Philip, bring him a drink and make it generous." Matthew considered protesting, he'd barely had a drink beyond a glass of beer or two in years and Philip knew it, but judging by the looks on all of their faces, he suspected he'd need it.

He took the proffered glass and took a seat in the deep leather chair. One thing he was enjoying about London was that while the weather made his war and prison injuries ache more, there was finally something more comfortable than bare ground or a rock to sit on. He sipped the drink, letting it warm him. "Go ahead, Sir Richard. Rip off the bandages." He tried to say it bravely. "If my mother is as well as Philip says, then I am already incredibly lucky. Frankly, I am incredibly lucky to be sitting here at all."

"And I will want that story, Matthew," Richard said quickly. "What Philip has told me is frankly astounding. But I think you're right." He looked at Matthew intently. "It's frankly eerie, how incredibly alike the German spy was to you." To Bull, he said briskly, "You may want to check into university students from Germany, the fellow spoke the language like he was born here."

"We're looking into it, already," Bull said.

Matthew found himself suddenly full of questions. "Are you saying… that people actually believed the German fellow was me? Granted he was a near twin to me but…"

"He was wounded not long after he took your place, so the soldiers under him probably didn't notice any changes in behavior. The one that might have noted, William Mason, your batman, was severely wounded in the same battle and died not long after." Richard paused.

"Poor chap," Matthew said sadly. He took another drink and decided to risk saying what he was beginning to suspect. "Did… my family believe this German spy was really me?"

"Yes. They were horrified at how badly injured he was, and I suspect his injuries and dark depression may have made it easier to ignore any mistakes he might have made but your family was quite taken in by the ruse." Richard wasn't exactly cold but he was matter of fact.

Matthew tried to make sense of it. "Was he disfigured?" It was the only thing he could think of that would cause people to be fooled.

"No. He was paralyzed from the waist down. And…" Richard sniffed, as if something had struck him. "His face was badly bruised, it was a good two months before all the marks faded. So, little differences were likely excused. I won't lie to you. I never once heard anyone express any suspicion. And apparently, you weren't burdened with any identifying marks from before the war."

Matthew felt the cold grip his insides like an icy vice. He had assumed that he'd been declared missing. The guards and commandant at the prisoner internment camp had essentially sold the few English POWs that had survived the hellish shipment to Namibia to the diamond mines. As he toiled in the mines, plotting against the overseers and finally escaping with nothing but his clothes, a knife, a hammer and chisel in his belt, and a sack of stolen diamonds, he'd always assumed that his mother, and his cousins, and Lavinia, were at least wondering and worrying about him. At worst mourning him and recalling him fondly. That no one had noticed the imposter stung his heart. Especially since… "But you said my mother was well. Did she see this imposter? I mean, you said he was badly wounded. I mean you said he couldn't walk but were his legs scarred or burned?"

Richard shook his head and gave him an odd look. A look of worry, strange to see on the manipulative man's face. "No, it was his back that had taken the injury."

"And Mother, if she'd gotten the news I was wounded, she would have been there at my side as soon as she could get there, to tend to me." He looked at Richard, hoping he was wrong for once about his mother.

"As soon as she knew, she was there," Richard agreed. "Frankly it was considered a small bit of luck, a paralyzed man having a nurse for a mother." He leaned in, clearly interested. "Why is this an issue?"

"Because…" Matthew stood up and rolled up the right leg of his trousers, revealing the large scar he'd had as long as he could remember. "I was bitten by a dog when I was a little boy. Mauled, really. My mother certainly knew about the scar, she helped my father stitch it up. I… I can understand Lady Mary, Lady Edith and Lady Sybil not knowing about it, and Lord Grantham and his wife, because they didn't know me as a boy… But my mother… my mother should have noticed the scar not being there." He sat down heavily, feeling the icy tendrils of shock clench around his chest. It wasn't a mistake his mother would have made. Not unless she was starting to slip the way older people sometimes did but there'd been no sign of it during his last leave home. They don't know her as well as I, he reminded himself. It was unsettling but forgivable.

He looked up from his glass. "There's more, isn't there? That's not the whole piece of bad news, is it?" Of course it wasn't, he realized. Out of all the people he listed to Philip and Bull as friends and family, they had brought Sir Richard Carlisle to break the news. Something was wrong and that meant there was more bad news. "I said to rip the bandage off."

Richard leaned back in his chair. "He was crippled, depressed. He ordered your fiancé, Lavinia Swire, to leave him. He told her he could never marry a woman if all she'd be was a nurse to him. She refused to give up on him."

"Of course," Matthew nodded sadly. "She would never have left me with such an injury. We had discussed it once, when I was on leave because… I was worried about her future. She said I was being silly, that people who married, married for life and that meant weathering any storm." It stung, because he sensed what was coming. "Did she marry the fellow, thinking it was me crippled from the war?"

"Not… not quite," Richard said softly. "The… I suppose we should call him the spy, refused to marry due to his condition. She stayed at his side, she and Lady Mary, and months later, he had a miracle recovery. The feeling came back to his body and everyone was well pleased. He and Lavinia did decide to marry and then… the poor girl took sick with the Spanish flu and died the night before their wedding day."

The icy coldness seemed to envelope his body. He sipped the drink but it did nothing to warm him. "She was such a sweet woman… I knew… I knew there would be deaths, but hers, I hadn't suspected. I thought I'd find her married to some other fellow after giving me up for dead. At least she… never knew the mistake she'd made in trusting someone that looked like me." A thought struck him. "Is this man parading around York as I even now?"

Bull gave Richard a knowing look and Richard nodded. Then Richard looked at him. "He's dead, Matthew. The man we all thought was Matthew Crawley died in late August of 1921. It was a car accident."

"So, my family is mourning my death. To them I died a year and a half ago." He let that roll around in his mind. Then he turned to the inspector. "No wonder… no wonder you were so suspicious of me. I must have looked like a terrible cad, playing on a grieving family's emotions. And Robert… the poor man doesn't even have an heir for the estate, it must have worried him terribly." At least it will be good news and not a total humiliation for one member of the family, he thought. The Crawley family taking in a German spy as one of their own was going to make them the laughingstock of all of their highborn friends.

"Well, about that," Richard said. "I'm genuinely uncertain how painful you'll find the blow that I am about to land on you, all things considered." He looked at his drink pensively. "I am not a particularly kind person, Matthew. I think you know that. You will hear different versions of why Lady Mary and I ended our engagement. I am neither the hero or entirely the wronged party. I did love her but I was also holding her to me with knowledge of one of her secrets."

Matthew felt a rush of anger. He'd often suspected something along those lines. There were times when he had been on leave where he had regretted meeting Lavinia, loving Lavinia, because as pleasant as that love was, he had the terrible sense that Mary needed his protection. And apparently, she had, which only made him feel even worse. "You were blackmailing her, weren't you? About the Turk?"

Richard's eyes widened and he smiled suddenly. "You knew about the Turk? That surprises me." Then he nodded. "Or perhaps it shouldn't, all things considered. How did you find out?"

The man's genuine interest forced some of his anger back. "There was a war, you know. Soldiers talk and tell squalid little stories about their supposed accomplishments and about the sort of things highborn women get up to. I heard the story from a fellow from London while in a field camp in France and after I beat him bloody for saying such a thing, Evelyn Napier took me aside and explained how likely it was to be true." He clenched his free hand into a fist. The story had angered him when he first heard it, because he had still felt betrayed by Mary's shallow concerns about money and the earldom. Then she had taken up with Richard, and he with Lavinia and with a cooler head he could see how little it truly mattered. The war had changed him in many ways, and the prison camp, the toil in the diamond mines under cruel masters, and his escape and years long trudge across the hinterlands of Africa had changed him even more. "With everything that happened since… I never had a chance to ask her about it, so I have no idea of the true circumstances. My assumption was always that he took advantage of her. He was certainly aggressive. Why are we discussing this?"

"Because in my way," Richard said easily, "I'm an honest man. And you're a clever man, and I have no doubt that other people will tell you the story of how Mary and I parted and what happened after. So always do keep in mind, I may be, in your eyes, a terrible cad, but I'm not dancing around the parts where I wasn't so noble. I thought I loved her, and I was holding her to me with the promise of keeping that story out of the news. She… threw me over for you. Or rather, the German spy she thought was you. Then they married. She had a child with him, and the tragedy of the last year is that Lord Grantham's heir died in a car crash the day his son was born." Richard shrugged. "The only positive thing people said about the tragedy was at least the child was a boy, that the title could be passed."

"Which makes it all more of a mess now," Philip added quietly. "Matthew, your family was quite taken in by this man." He held out some photographs, which Matthew numbly accepted. It was like looking at a mirror image, the image of a life he'd never lived. Wedding photographs, no doubt from the social pages of the newspaper, of the spy who looked so much like him with Mary. Mary, who was smiling so joyfully at him in the photo.

"I…" he handed the photos back. "I have no idea what I should say or do. I... have spent years wanting to be with my family again. Now I feel like I should just… take myself back to Africa." It all tasted like bitter ashes. No, he told himself as he clenched his drink, that's not true. They will be shocked, and embarrassed, but also overjoyed. "I don't mean that. I don't." He took a moment to find his center, that part of him that had fought against the inevitable death that his captors had clearly longed for. "This has hurt, and I am sure it will continue to hurt but… I've already opened Pandora's Box and there's no closing it."

"Well said," Philip said after a moment. He patted Matthew on the back reassuringly. "Once the upsetting news is digested, I think you'll find your family moves past the unpleasantness quite easily."

"I hope so," Matthew said worriedly. "I somehow thought this was going to be the easy."

Sir Richard smiled wryly. "I know I should find nothing of this amusing, Matthew. But… I will admit, I never in my life ever considered that I would feel sorry for you. And yet here I am."


	2. Chapter 2

Rose MacLare wondered when and if the boredom would ever end. Somehow, she had thought that joining Mary for a week in London would be fun, that getting away from Downton for a few days when it was mired in deepest winter would be exciting. Instead, Mary had been dragging her from one stuffy luncheon to the next. In the evening, they went to staid restaurants that Mary's various male dates chose. If the men were witty or charming, Rose could at least see the point but she found herself struggling to not roll her eyes at what Tony Gillingham considered humorous remarks. Cousin Matthew had always been a little bit too much of a lap dog to Mary's whims, in her opinion, but he at least had been witty. Tony was a bore, and not very smart, and she didn't see what Mary found so amazing and attractive about him. And Mary was determined to officially chaperone her and do a good job so there no chance to slip away.

I need to get away, she told herself as she excused herself and went to the powder room. The restaurant was on the ground floor of a hotel, large enough that the bathroom was out of sight from the main dining area. There was a bar and even though it was hardly hopping, it was still more active than the dinner table. She made her way to the bar and began looking for a new companion. The problem, she realized, was that the vast majority of the men were older than Tony. Older men were most often married men, and poor Matthew's advice still rang in her ears. After a few minutes, she was ready to give it up. She couldn't leave, and she wasn't seeing anyone even close to her own age to talk to. Then she spotted three new men walking in, and she found herself struggling not to stare. Two of them were older, the same sort of older men that weren't worth her time but the third… She almost felt faint, it was that shocking to see a man so physically similar to Matthew Crawley. You're not seeing a ghost, she told herself. Poor Matthew has been dead for a year and a half, he's not here in London. The man was just incredibly similar, the icy blue eyes, the blond hair. But he's not really Matthew, she reminded herself. He's too thin, his hair is sun bleached, not golden like Matthew's, and every time someone set a glass down too hard, he jumped. She looked away as he met her eyes and chalked up his lack of awareness as another sign. Just a doppelganger, she told herself as she broke her gaze at him, a fellow who by chance happens to look eerily like Matthew. But if had been Matthew, he would have recognized her, and smiled in that charming way he had. Of course, it's not him, Rose told herself, you went to his funeral. And so did Mary, and the last thing Mary needed to see was an eerie living near identical copy of her dead husband. Mary was in many ways past her grief but, Rose chided herself, if you were startled by the man's appearance then Mary would be shocked.

"Thank goodness you aren't making us chase you." Rose jumped and turned to face Mary, who was conveniently clutching Tony like a handbag. The older woman was annoyed with her, that was clear, but it wasn't real anger, just annoyance. "You know I promised Mama and Granny that I'd keep an eye on you. You're still a single unattached woman, you know."

I want to have this argument but I can't, Rose thought darkly. "Oh, I thought you and Tony might like a few minutes alone, without me listening to your every word."

"And you might like a few minutes away from our chatter, I am sure." Mary said it gently for a change. "But this isn't a good place for you." She gestured around the bar. "These are mostly older, married men and I don't see anyone with decent titles." Mary eyed all the men and then shook her head with amusement. "Really, Rose, I've kept you on too short a leash if this is where you escape."

Rose bit back the obvious retort, that Mary and Tony had picked the place. "Well, I wouldn't mind if we chose a place tomorrow that wasn't so… dowdy." For a moment, she was certain it would work, that Mary would laugh and then take Tony by the arm and leave.

Then she clearly spotted someone she knew. "Well, how surprising, or perhaps not, that Sir Richard is back to hobnobbing with merchants." Her eyes followed the older man as he made his way to the table that held the doppelganger. Much to Rose's surprise, Sir Richard spotted Mary and seemed genuinely shocked to see her. Worse, the doppelganger noticed Richard's surprise and turned his head to see what had startled the man. Dammit, Rose thought worriedly as Mary locked eyes with the eerie stranger, this will go badly. What genuinely surprised her was how the doppelganger clearly did recognize Mary, his shock was almost as great as Mary's and the recognition in his expression had Rose second guessing herself. He looks so much like Matthew, she marveled, but that's impossible.

Mary was pale and trembling as Sir Richard came to her side. Sir Richard, for his part, seemed genuinely bothered that Mary was upset. And Mary was upset, she was clearly struggling to not break down while Tony cluelessly tried to calm her. Rose realized suddenly that the eerie stranger was also struggling, he was being held back by the older man at his table, and talked to. What is going on, Rose wondered.

Sir Richard looked nervous as he spoke. "Lady Mary, I had no idea you were in London. This must be quite shocking to you…"

"Quite shocking?" Mary slapped the man's face. "What sort of sick game are you playing, Richard? God knows we broke our engagement on bad terms, but I thought you were past it, that you'd married some French woman. And now you're… "Mary sputtered angrily as she pointed to the stranger who resembled Matthew so closely. "I don't even know what you're doing other than beginning to stage some sort of sick hoax to sell newspapers!"

Sir Richard drew back. Rose could see his eyes flash with anger, anger that he visibly forced back down. It's good they didn't marry, she decided suddenly, he's not the sort to take much disagreement from a wife. Sir Richard's cross look faded in seconds. "Forgive me, Lady Mary. As much as I was somewhat amused by this… situation, this is not how I wanted to broach the matter. With you or with your family. Perhaps we should find a quiet room?"

He's worried, Rose realized, and not just because he was socially conscious and aware that they were drawing attention.

Mary was having none of it. "Broach the matter? What kind of game are you playing?"

"No game at all," Richard said quietly. "That man is Matthew Crawley, Captain Matthew Crawley, who was captured by the Germans in early 1918 and transported to Namibia by the Germans so that they could plant a spy into the British Army forces." He paused. "He managed to escape, eventually and made his way to the colony in Kenya where he found Lord Atherton. The authorities have been notified and Lord Atherton," he gestured to the older, well dressed man that was standing next to the imposter, "has been circumspect in checking. Scotland Yard has analyzed his fingerprints and they match the ones Matthew Crawley gave when he became an officer." Richard gestured for the two men to step forward. Rose found herself growing more and more amazed. Up close, it was almost breathtaking how the man resembled Matthew. The lighter hair and fading remains of tanned skin made sense considering the story and if he looked thinner, it only made sense. Richard gave Mary a surprisingly sympathetic look. "This… I didn't know you were in London, this isn't how I wanted you to find this out…"

"We were… going to contact Lord Grantham, first," the doppelganger said. He even sounds like Matthew, Rose marveled. He looked pale and shaky, despite the sun tanned skin. "Because it's so surprising."

"But…" Mary's eyes widened, her shock plain. "But… Matthew…" Then she collapsed on the floor in a dead faint.

0o0o0o0

It was lucky, Matthew thought numbly as he accepted a cup of tea from the pretty blonde woman that was apparently one of Mary's friends, that Lord Atherton was such a kind man. The older man had gotten the hotel staff at the restaurant to commandeer a hotel suite for Mary to recover in from the fainting spell. Matthew had been regulated to the small parlor, while Mary was in the bedroom being consoled by her male companion while Lord Atherton and Sir Richard gently confirmed the shocking news.

This is as awful as it gets, he told himself as he sipped the hot tea. It was never going to be easy, he had no fantasies of reuniting with his family where it wasn't immensely awkward. The situation with the German spy actually taking his place and identity, taking the subterfuge to the point that Mary had actually married the lout… It shocked and horrified him, but he suspected he had the easiest role to play. He was the aggrieved victim after all. If he felt guilt, it was in not escaping the diamond mine slave camp sooner, not reaching a British colony where he could trust the people enough to tell his story, but he had never thought that meanwhile the spy was… living his life for him.

At least until he died, Matthew mused darkly. At least I don't have to confront the fellow. Poor Mary though, with a child by the spy. It was no wonder she had collapsed. He sighed as he set down the cup and saucer. Then he gestured to the pretty blonde girl. "Thank you so much for the cup of tea. I'm afraid, in the confusion, that I didn't get your name."

The young woman was taken back, but only for a moment. "I don't think it was offered," she said easily. "I'm Rose MacLare. Mary and I are cousins but through Violet so you and I are not related." She blushed. "I think, anyway. I admit to not paying much attention to the many lectures on lineage."

Matthew smiled, despite the situation. "I won't tell. I never paid much attention, either." He looked down at his hands. He had never been good at small talk. Lavinia had always teased him that he liked to read simply so he'd have something to say at dinner parties. Finally, as the silence dragged on, he asked what he hoped wasn't a stupid question. "So, do you live in London? Was Mary visiting your family?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. "No. Not at all. I am currently living at Downton Abbey. My parents are in India and my mother thought Lady Cora would find me a welcome distraction after Lady Sybil died, so I've been staying there. Lady Mary invited me on a short trip to London since Downton Village is a bit dull in midwinter…" Her voice trailed off. "Are you quite all right? You just went suddenly pale."

He struggled to not drop the teacup even as his hands shook. "Lady Sybil… died? But she was just a girl, just a little older than you…" It was strange, how utterly overwhelming it was. He had steeled himself for his mother to be dead, for Mary and Lavinia to both be taken by other men but Sybil... "I'm sorry," he said, his voice shaking, "I hadn't been told that. How… did she die?"

"Oh dear." The girl looked suddenly chagrinned. "I didn't mean to shock you. I'm sorry." She hesitated. "I forget… you're Matthew but not… the Matthew I met. You haven't heard any of the news. Sybil died in childbirth in the summer of 1921. She married Tom Branson, Lord Grantham's chauffeur after the war ended.

"Tom the chauffeur?" Matthew struggled to put a face to the name and then he remembered. The Irish fellow who Sybil had tricked into taking her to a rally. "Robert let them get married?" Robert was open minded but the man had limits. Robert hadn't been pleased that Lavinia wasn't more highly placed, but tolerated what he couldn't stop. But if there had been a child, Robert had probably made the best of a bad situation. "Did the child survive?"

"Oh yes," Rose said, seeming happy to move on to a less depressing topic. "A dear little girl. Tom named her Sybil, after her mother, and she shares the nursery at Downton with Mary's little George…" She frowned suddenly, as if she realized she'd put her foot into a mess. "

"I…" Matthew sighed. "I've been told about that. I hadn't planned to… shock Lady Mary with the news." The plan had been for Philip to contact Robert and to break the news quietly precisely so people weren't surprised and shocked in a public setting. Sir Richard had suggested the restaurant precisely because it was the haunt of London business men so none of the family or friends of the family would see him and get a terrible shock. He chuckled darkly. "I suppose this is exactly my luck."

Much to his surprise, Rose laughed. "I'm sorry," she said as she covered her mouth. "I was just thinking the same thing. The only way this could be worse is if Matthew… the spy, was alive. And to think we thought he was the unlucky one."

"How… was he so unlucky?" Matthew asked, suddenly curious.

"He did die in a car crash the day his son was born," Rose said, her humor leaving her. "It was really quite dreadful. This," and she gestured to the closed bedroom door that Mary was ensconced in, "is awful news but good news just the same." She looked at him, her eyes bright. "I mean, you're alive, Matthew. I know Mary is shocked right now but she will be happy. And your mother, she'll be delighted. So will Cousin Robert. He's always complaining about missing you and missing your help with the estate."

Matthew considered that. "I never helped Robert with the estate." The estate was lovely, in its way, and he understood why Robert adored it, but he had rather dreaded picking up the pieces after Robert's death. It occurred to him how the spy had inserted himself into Robert's good graces..

Rose smiled awkwardly. "No, I suppose not."

Can this be more awkward, Matthew wondered. Then the fellow Mary had been with, he thought he'd heard the name Tony but he wasn't sure came out, followed by Philip and Sir Richard. His expression was grim, while Philip's was more hopeful, and Sir Richard was still looking faintly amused. Tony glared at him.

"She wants to see you," Tony growled.

Matthew stood up and set down the tea cup. "Of course."

Much to his surprise, Tony gave him a shove, puffing up his chest like he wanted to fight. "You will be respectful to her about this situation, is that understood?" He poked Matthew's chest.

Matthew grabbed him by his suit jacket and slammed him into the wall. "Don't put your hands on me," he growled at the man. It was instinctive, years of casual threats and abuse from strangers had taught him all too well to not meekly allow bullies their way. It was weak, and people who were seen as weak were robbed, and preyed upon. But then he remembered where he was, in a moderately posh hotel room in London, and not in some dusty gin joint in Namibia or Rhodesia. He let go of the shocked younger man and stepped back. "I'm sorry… It's been far too long since I was with gentlemen and not violent curs. Of course, you're concerned about Lady Mary, and I assure you I have no intention of being disrespectful. This situation was not her fault."

He then stepped into the bedroom, feeling both nervous and worried. Mary was on the bed, propped up by pillows, still in her lovely dress but covered somewhat by a blanket. She had clearly been crying, but was past the worst of it, daubing her eyes and struggling to smile at him. "Matthew…" she said softly, "I'm afraid I must look a fright. You look…" She seemed to drink in his presence. "You look too thin, and too worried." She daubed her eyes again. "I'm sorry. You've been through a nightmare, you find your way back home, and… what a hideous homecoming for you." She let her hands fall to her lap. "This is a miracle, Matthew, a miracle I don't deserve for so many reasons, and that is what I need to remind myself. It's… just…"

"A lot to take in," Matthew finished for her. He struggled to find something, anything, to say, to ease her pain. He shrugged and then held out his hands. "I have to apologize to you, Mary. I lost your little dog." A small lie. It had been in his overcoat when he'd been captured, and after he'd been beaten into unconsciousness, all of his uniform kit had been stripped from his body.

"But…" Mary started to disagree and then seemed to realize something. Finally, she said, her tone careful, "I suppose you did. But I'm afraid I've betrayed your trust in a far worse fashion." She sniffled. "I know you know… about the marriage. You must be so angry with me, with all of us."

"No." Not quite a lie. He was angry with the German, it was probably best that the man was dead because seeing Mary's devastated, tear stricken face, he wanted to pound the imposter bloody. But Sir Richard had been adamant that everyone had been taken in and the young girl, Rose, was oddly familiar with him, which meant that the spy did more than physically resemble him. He took a step closer and looked down at his hands, hoping to find the right words. "The anger isn't with you or the family… I just regret so much…" We should have married in 1914, he thought suddenly. I shouldn't have let my pride get in the way. If we had married then, she would have seen the scar on my leg and known the imposter, however charming, wasn't me. And she was afraid to tell you about the Turk, that you'd castigate her for it. "I've missed so much. I missed you." Then he shivered violently. "I'm sorry… I've just been so cold."

Mary nodded and smiled, more fully, as if she was relieved. She gestured to the chair next to the bed. "Then sit down next to the fire. Papa always said Africa was ungodly hot and you were there longer than he was. And you're too thin, and it's been five years… I'm sure we can find something to talk about that isn't… hideously painful. Your friend Philip said the hotel has lent us the room for the evening, and Tony is fetching my things from Grantham House…." She looked down, suddenly embarrassed. "Poor Tony…"

He decided to take her advice and sat in the chair. He also decided to try some humor. "Poor Tony indeed… I'm afraid I nearly gave him a punch because I've been so out of sorts. Is he your new beau?" He leaned in conspiratorially. "I will admit, I find I like Sir Richard more now than I did when the two of you were engaged but that young sport? Surely you can do better, Lady Mary."

Despite it all, she laughed. "You're awful. And Tony is… a good sport, all things considered."


	3. Chapter 3

Tom wasn't surprised that Mary didn't join them for dinner. Mary was shattered by the news. She had been brave when she had arrived from London, trying to maintain the fiction that she wasn't embarrassed and completely humiliated, and worse, guilty of being a fool. It was the last that shamed her, Tom was certain of that. Living with the Crawleys for years, as an employee and member of the family, he knew she wasn't as hard hearted as so many thought. She was facing a nightmare situation and he didn't begrudge her needing some time to digest it. If that meant he had to sit in her place as Robert tried to wrap his mind around the situation, he had no issue with that.

Even if Robert was so flabbergasted by the news that he was reduced to stuttering odd comments every few moments. As he and Tom made their way to the library for after dinner drinks, he sputtered. "Enslaved in a diamond mine! I knew the Germans were monsters but really!"

Robert, Tom understood suddenly, was also embarrassed. With reason, although the more charitable newspapers were quick to note how Matthew Crawley had been a barely known cousin that no one had known well. It was probably lucky, Tom realized suddenly, that Edith had editorial control over of a major paper and Sir Richard was focusing more on Matthew's trials and tribulations in Africa. There was also an investigation into the German spy started. "At least," Tom said to Robert, "he survived it."

Robert sighed. Then he smiled, with genuine warmth, Tom was pleased to see. "It is good news, Tom. As awkward and painful as this is, as difficult as it is to accept that we welcomed a complete stranger into the family while Matthew was suffering, the fact that Matthew is alive is something we should all be overjoyed about." He handed Tom a glass of scotch. "I'm glad Cora and Mother are with Isobel tonight. I thought she was going to faint when she heard the news."

Tom winced at the memory. He suspected that he and Rose were the lucky ones in the mess. Rose had never met Matthew until after the war, so she had never known anyone but the spy. Tom had known Matthew but before the war, all he'd been to Tom was Lord Grantham's heir, a quiet fellow who was always pleasant to the house staff. Sybil had liked him… As the memory rose in his head, he made sure to keep it off his face. "I suppose I just don't understand why the spy kept up the lie."

Robert waved his hand dismissively. "If he hadn't been wounded, I think this would have played out differently. But he was wounded, and he found himself unable to walk, among the enemy, being told he'd be paralyzed for life… If he confessed the truth, then what? He would have been sent to a prison camp. When the war was over, he'd be a cripple in Germany with little hope of finding work. If he kept his mouth shut, he could stay here, where people were concerned about him, and where even as an invalid, he'd be assured some position." The older man sighed pensively. "At first, at least, I think that man did everything he did out of desperation."

"But then?" Tom asked.

Robert sipped his drink. "It's a tale as old as time, Tom. I think he fell in love. With Mary. He was so depressed, I wonder how much of that was the pressure of living a lie. I suspect he agreed to marry Lavinia because we all told him he was supposed to be in love with her."

"And instead he fell in love with Mary…" Which as he considered it, made a wicked sort of sense. "And then Lavinia died and he must have felt guilty…"

Robert sighed again. "All the while, he's digging deeper and deeper into the family. I treated him like a son. I was grateful when he used the bequest from Reginald Swire to save this place and now I wonder how calculated it was."

"It wasn't," Tom reassured, feeling as though he'd found his footing with the mess. He smiled wryly. "I don't think the spy, the man we thought was Matthew, was all that different from Matthew. I suspect that's why we were fooled. Just… just because he was a German soldier, that doesn't mean he was evil. It was a war, and he was ordered to take Matthew's place and be a spy. I'm no soldier, but I do have some inkling of how it works. If he refused the order, what would have happened?"

Robert shrugged. "Refusing an order can get a man shot for treason. And once he was wounded, there was no easy way to back out of the story… I have sympathy, Tom. But this is a mess. Aside from the public finding the whole business endlessly fascinating, the fact remains that this causes us some huge problems." He took a seat on the couch and Tom sat down opposite him. "George can't inherit. Mary's marriage is legal so fortunately no one will be claiming he's a bastard but he's now the child of a German soldier. Mary is devastated, and worse, this will never be allowed to go away. Matthew is returning, and returning with some wealth, but I spoke to Lord Atherton, and to Mary, and they were both concerned that his health is delicate. He's also… facing any number of ugly truths, chief among them the fact that in some ways, it's fair to say we betrayed him terribly. There's also the issue of the money the spy received from Reginald Swire's estate. And Matthew…" Robert sighed again. "Before the war, my greatest fear was that Matthew viewed this place as an albatross around his neck, that one day, he was going to decide he'd had enough of us trying to make him live in our world. After the war, I thought the war had changed him, had made him realize what was important… And that was not Matthew. I can't imagine that he'll want much to do with any of us. I can't even imagine what Isobel must be thinking."

"What she should be thinking," Tom said firmly, "is what we just agreed on, that despite all the problems, it's still wonderful that Matthew is alive. Will he be coming here soon?"

"Sometime next week," Robert said quickly. "He's aiding the army in the investigation of the spy. I spoke with him on the phone. He sounded out of sorts, frankly. Out of sorts and very worried about his mother."

"He's the current sensation," Tom offered. "And I don't pretend that we were good friends," and that bothered him, the more he thought about it, "but who wouldn't be out of sorts, Robert? He's been through a hellish war, he was transported in chains to Namibia, he had to escape enslavement, and apparently has spent years wandering through the African veldt, only to return home to find out we didn't notice he was gone. It's surprising that he's bearing up so well."

Robert nodded. "I worry for him. I worry for Mary, but I know she's strong. With Matthew… I worry about him, I worry that everything you just described will have changed him for the worse."

"Don't," Tom said gently. "Don't chase after worries that aren't even there yet. He could be fine." Tom had his doubts but there was no point in making oneself sick with worry. "I'm going to check on Mary, and sure she had some dinner." Mary was too thin to begin with and he suspected she hadn't really eaten since finding out the news. She was struggling with it. He bid Robert good night and went up the stairs to Mary's room.

She was sitting at her vanity staring at two framed photographs. Photographs of Matthew, Tom realized, except that the wedding photo couldn't possibly be Matthew. The other was a photo Matthew had taken when the war began. A lot of the men did that, so that loved ones would have a keepsake just in case. Matthew's was unusual only in that he wasn't wearing a uniform. Mary looked up as he entered the room, her expression clouded but firm. "I'm all right Tom. You don't need to check on me, I'm not going to do anything dramatic."

"No one would judge you if you did. It's… quite a lot to take in." He gestured to the photos. "Are you looking for differences?"

Mary nodded. "I am… and I'm not finding them." Her voice cracked. "Oh Tom, he was so hurt. He didn't say it, I think he was worried about upsetting me, but I could see it in his eyes. And I keep trying to find something, anything, that should have told me this… this imposter wasn't Matthew."

He looked at the pictures. It was eerie. "He just looks a little heavier in the wedding photo. You shouldn't blame yourself. Not a one of us ever suspected." He forced away the memory of Sybil that Robert's words had reawakened in his mind. It wasn't the time, he reminded himself.

"I married a man who was lying to me. I don't even know his real name. It was all a lie." Mary's voice shook. Tom sat down next to her and put his arm around her, giving her a gentle hug.

"It wasn't all a lie," he said carefully. "We'll probably never know why this fellow kept Matthew's identity but… he did love you. If there's anything I know, that man adored you."

"And I loved Matthew," Mary retorted. She began to cry. "I don't think you're such a fool, Tom, that you didn't know that I regretted that we broke our engagement before the war. When he was wounded… I thought maybe it was a second chance, but he kept pushing me away because of the injury…"

And perhaps because he realized it was difficult to be Matthew Crawley with a woman who he was supposed to know well, Tom wondered. But that wasn't going to ease Mary's heart. "He was in a desperate place. Your father and I talked about, that he could hardly refuse the assignment to be a spy, that he was severely wounded. He might have viewed his being so injured as punishment for taking Matthew's life." He hesitated. He worried he was about grant the spy more decency than he deserved. At the same time, Tom couldn't forget that the man he knew as Matthew Crawley had been his friend, and a man who did his best to act honorably. "I wonder if when the feeling came back to his legs, if perhaps he took that as a sign that he was supposed to be Matthew for us."

Mary was quiet for a long moment. "What do you mean, Tom? That he was somehow innocent?"

"No, he's guilty, Mary. He took Matthew's place. But I think he tried to be a good person." The idea formed in his mind. "I think he offered to marry Lavinia as a sort of penance. He had taken Matthew's life but when he regained the ability to walk, he agreed to marry Lavinia to… do right by Matthew. But… I think he had fallen in love with you. And then Lavinia died…"

Mary sniffed. "He felt awful about that. That she died…" For a surprise, she blushed. "You may never have been told this, Tom, but… Lavinia saw us kiss the night she died. He was telling me how sorry he was, and it happened, and she saw us… And she went up to her room and died, but not before telling Matthew… the spy, that she thought it was better this way. He felt guilty." She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "I felt guilty, Tom. She was a good woman, everything that a man like Matthew deserved. And isn't that a bloody laugh? At least she never knew what fools we all were."

"You weren't a fool, Mary. Or if you were, you're in good company because everyone, including Lavinia and including Matthew's mother were equally foolish."

"That night… that Lavinia saw us…" Her eyes widened, as if she'd suddenly realized something. "He said he was so sorry. I thought… I thought he was sorry for the failed engagement. But… what if he was apologizing for taking Matthew's place?"

Tom nodded. "It makes sense, especially considering how upset he was over her death… I wasn't close to the family during that time but… Matthew and Lavinia seemed like cordial friends right before their wedding, not two people in love." Tom took her hand, hoping to reassure her. "You shouldn't torment yourself, Mary."

"I betrayed Matthew," she said firmly. "There's no dancing around it. I married a man I thought was Matthew, I shared secrets with that man, I had a child with that man. That the spy… whose real name I don't even know, was in love with me and was trying his best to be Matthew for me… Its small comfort, Tom."

"Small but some comfort, I hope. Stop beating yourself up." Tom managed a smile for her. "You said yourself, he wasn't angry with you."

Mary nodded. "Yes, I know. But in fairness, I think he was too overwhelmed. I never thought I'd ever say a nice thing about Sir Richard, but I am forced to by this. He was nothing but polite and kind to me, and he was genuinely worried that meeting by surprise would be too much for both of us. Even Tony was worried. And I had… fainted like a silly girl so I think Matthew was trying desperately to not make it worse." She gave Tom a worried look. "He's not well, Tom. I swear, he shook the entire time we were together. Any little noise startled him. There were scars on his wrists, from the chains, and he kept tugging at his cuffs so I wouldn't see them. The stories Richard has published… I think they're very toned down." Mary seemed to regain her inner steel. She looked at Tom intently. "I don't pretend that Matthew will ever truly forgive me, or that he'll ever be able to trust me enough to be more than friends again, but he will need help getting past this and I intend to help him, Tom. If he wants my help."

That could be good or bad, Tom realized, but like with Robert earlier, he thought it was best to wait and see what problems happened. "He'll need all of our help, I suspect." He bid her good night and went down the hall to his own bedroom.

Alone, he finally let his memories of Sybil play out in his mind. When Matthew, or rather the spy, had asked him to be his best man, he'd been surprised and pleased that at least one member of the family was willing to include him and be friendly. Sybil on the surface had been pleased as well, but later that night had raised a concern.

" _Yes," Sybil said quietly as she curled up next to him on the bed, "it's very nice of Matthew." Tom could see her brow furrow in the moonlight coming from the window. "Maybe it's having been away that makes me think this but… Matthew is different."_

 _It made Tom chuckle. "He's about to be married, Sybil. To your sister, and the two of them are like giddy schoolchildren about it. And you've been away, of course he seems different." God knows the whole place felt foreign and odd to him after being in Dublin for a year._

" _No, it's different." Sybil rose up on one elbow to look at him directly. "He's different. He never used to… just agree with how Papa and Mary made plans. He's changed law firms so he'll have more time for the estate. He's let Mary choose everything for the wedding, and he's hardly invited anyone that isn't from our circle. Our circle that he didn't much care for. With his best man canceled, it's just his mother who's known him for any length of time."_

" _I think you're searching for worries that aren't there," Tom said gently as he held her. "He's picking his battles. He has to be the Earl when your father passes, so he has to learn more about running the estate. Letting Mary have what she wants for her wedding… that's what men do. I wish I'd had more to offer you in that regard. As for who he's invited… It was a long, brutal war, Sybil, and his school friends would have been the right age and education to be tapped as officers. You said yourself once, it seemed like every boy you ever danced with was dead. I also seem to recall the discussion around the servants table, that terrible middle class Cousin Matthew didn't have any family to speak of. So, who was he supposed to invite?"_

 _He'd hoped he had eased her mind but she was still frowning. "It's just…" She frowned even more. "He doesn't remember the time he rescued me at the rally. I was teasing him about it, that it was the one time I was tempted to try to win his hand. He said he didn't remember it."_

" _He might not. You remember it because it was your first fight. And he was injured in the war. A lot of men who were injured don't remember things."_

" _He didn't hurt his head, Tom." She pursed her lips in frustration. "And he had reason to remember it, because that was the night he asked Mary to marry him, the first time."_

 _Tom pulled her close in an embrace. "Maybe," he whispered in her ear, "maybe he was just embarrassed since it took six years, a war, and the both of them nearly marrying others, to get the job done. I've come to like Matthew a great deal, but he does embarrass easily." He kissed her. "I think you're just worrying too much. You probably caught him off guard."_

" _Maybe," Sybil agreed after a moment. "I just can't shake the feeling that something isn't right."_

Tom looked at the photo on his vanity, the photo of Sybil that had been taken at Mary and Matthew's wedding. She hadn't pushed it any further, but Tom knew she had kept a close eye on Matthew. There were signs. Mary likely ignored them, because she had been head over heels in love. Robert and Lavinia had probably been the same, too overjoyed that Matthew had regained the ability to walk to notice any oddities. Tom himself could honestly say he'd only gotten to know Matthew after the war. But Sybil had noticed, and Sybil wasn't the person with the keenest eye when it came to Matthew Crawley.

If Sybil had noticed, he wondered as he gazed at her photo, then why hadn't Isobel? Perhaps, he told himself, I should ignore convention and ask Isobel some difficult questions.


	4. Chapter 4

Violet spotted Isobel entering the small church and made the decision to follow her. Something was wrong with the woman, Violet was certain of that, and it wasn't just the hideous shock of Matthew being alive while a German spy had tricked them all. Violet drew up her questions as she walked to the church. How could someone as clever as Isobel and as devoted of a mother make such an error? Isobel was no fool, and she wasn't forgetful, and her story to the family that she'd forgotten about the scar on Matthew's leg was only going to pass muster until people saw it. Mary was trying very hard to not scream in rage at Isobel over that, she had told Violet that Matthew had shown her the scar and it wasn't the sort of thing a mother forgot. Not a mother like Isobel Crawley. There was no way Violet could believe that Isobel genuinely thought the man was her son Matthew.

Which led to the next question, why would Isobel participate in such a monstrous farce? Oh, she could see some of it, Isobel had a kind heart and the poor man had been crippled. If she had identified the wounded man as a spy, Violet had no doubt that the poor fellow would have spent months in a substandard hospital for prisoners of war where his injuries would have been ignored. It wasn't in Isobel's nature to condemn a man, and sending a badly injured man to a prison camp was something that even Violet found unpleasant. But there was sparing a poor fellow an unpleasant end, and there was calling him your son and encouraging him to marry your son's fiancé. We will talk, Violet thought as she entered the quiet church, because I need some answers.

Isobel was seated in the front pew, in front of the alter. She looked up, and smiled, although Violet rather got the sense that she was in a sort of quiet misery. "Violet… why are you here?"

"With your son risen from the dead and the depths of Africa and arriving this afternoon on the train, I thought perhaps it was time to give thanks for our…. Awkward miracle." She sat down next to Isobel. "It is a miracle, you know. However difficult it is for our family."

"It is," Isobel agreed. "It is a miracle that Matthew is alive. And yet…" She wiped her eyes. "Knowing that he's coming, that in just a few hours, I have to explain to my son… that I mistook a German spy for him… I doubt very much that he'll forgive me."

Violet saw the truth in an instant. "Good heavens, Isobel, if you're going to lie, at least try to make it believable."

"What?" Isobel sputtered.

"Exactly what I said," Violet snapped. "He showed Mary the scar on his right leg. She said it was clear as day, well healed but still, the scar of someone that had been savagely bitten by a dog."

After a long moment, Isobel nodded. "He was lucky it healed cleanly. It wasn't even that big of a dog, but he was only four and Reginald and I were both worried it would affect his walking but once it healed he never even limped. Children are resilient."

It was the sort of story that almost begged to be told and Violet shook it off, knowing it was meant to distract her from her purpose. "You knew that man wasn't your son." She hesitated, because she wasn't without sympathy, and because she suspected what might have been in Isobel's thoughts. "He was grievously injured, and he was pretending to be Matthew and one of your flaws is a kindness of heart that can't be denied." She gave Isobel a sympathetic look. "I can understand not wanting to harm an injured man. I can understand not wanting to see someone that looked so much like your son sent away to a prisoner of war camp… And I can understand how allowing him to lie kept the reality at bay. If he had assumed Matthew's identity… well, we're all quite agreed it's a miracle Matthew is alive. You thought Matthew was dead but you didn't want it to be so you let this imposter pretend. Is that why?"

"I…" Isobel looked down at her hands. "I knew that man wasn't Matthew. But… no, Violet. That's not what happened."

"Then you need to explain what happened," Violet said quickly. She struggled to not sound harsh. "I'm trying to understand why you… allowed this fraud to linger when you knew. If you were in denial over how likely it was that Matthew was dead, I can at least understand that…"

Isobel nodded. "I was in denial, I won't deny that… and as time passed, the lines blurred but..." She seemed to pull herself up, as if coming up for air. "That it was Africa, makes me realize that a higher power was somehow involved." She smiled suddenly, although Violet got the sense that she was struggling to maintain her control. "Matthew was born in Africa, did I ever tell you that? Reginald and I went to South Africa as medical missionaries. We had been married for twenty years at that point and we went because we knew we'd never have children and we wanted to devote ourselves to helping the natives. We had just settled into our clinic routine in Johannesburg when I realized I was with child."

"Are we walking down this particular road for a reason?" Violet asked after a moment.

Isobel narrowed her eyes. "Yes, Violet. Matthew is coming home this afternoon, and I can tell by how he's spoken to me on the phone that he's been convincing himself that I must be senile as the only plausible explanation for this and it's not. And you think I latched onto a man who just happened to look like Matthew and allowed him to take Matthew's place because I couldn't cope with Matthew's death." She daubed her eyes. "I assure you, I'm not senile or in denial. But I have told Matthew a lie for his entire life and now I have to deal with it."

"And what is that lie?" Violet asked.

Isobel sighed. "That he was an only child. Even Reginald was surprised. Matthew was born, and the nurse was cleaning him off when it all just started up again, my labor. The nurse put Matthew in the bassinet by the bed and then… Marcus was born. Reginald was so pleased. So was I. We'd wanted children for so long, and then we suddenly had two identical little boys." Her voice suddenly hitched. "Then I started bleeding. Reginald told the nurse to take Marcus to the nursery, we hadn't prepared supplies for two, and to fetch some things for me. It was least two hours before I was out of danger. I was just holding Matthew for the first time and had it in my head that I should hold Marcus as well and Reginald sent the nurse to the nursery to fetch him and… Then that nightmare started."

"The baby was taken." Violet said, feeling a rush of sympathy for Isobel. It was a brutal blow for any woman but worse for Isobel who, Violet often suspected, would have liked to have been surrounded by children and grandchildren.

Isobel nodded. "We called the police, but the Boers never had much love for the English. They kept insisting one of the natives took the baby as a sort of evil sacrifice but that didn't make any sense." Isobel sighed again. "There had been a woman at the clinic, a German woman, who had miscarried. She had disappeared the very night, almost at the same time. She'd given us a fake name, the Boer women often did, but her German wasn't the sloppy Boer German, she spoke with that upper class type of German you don't expect in South Africa. She reminded me of me, truth be told. She had been told children weren't possible, and her husband desperately wanted a boy to be his legacy. I was certain she had taken Marcus but no one would help us…" Isobel daubed her eyes. "When we left Africa, we both decided not to tell Matthew about Marcus because we were quite certain we'd never know the truth of what happened. And in a way, I told you the truth just now. I knew, as soon as I examined that man with Dr. Clarkson, that he wasn't Matthew. But I didn't say anything because I knew he was my son."

Violet considered the possibilities. "Are you _certain_ of this, Isobel?

Isobel nodded. "We talked, Violet."

 _Early spring, 1917_

 _Isobel made her way down the long hallway. Matthew had been moved from the ward to a private bedroom, to better facilitate what little recovery he could make. He was filled with despair, she could see that, and she regretted that she was likely going to make it worse, but it had to be done. The bandage had to be ripped off, they had to acknowledge the truth between them._

 _He was sitting up in bed, holding a book, his expression sad and despairing. The wheel chair was close by. She wasn't worried, she knew from Clarkson and Sybil that he'd only just begun learning how to manipulate himself from the bed to the chair. And she wanted a captive audience for what she was about to say._

" _Good afternoon, Mother." He set down the book. "Have you come to check on me?"_

" _Yes… and to talk with you. Privately." She closed the door carefully, glad for once that the abbey was so solidly constructed. Even though they were on the first floor, where the servants and nurses roamed on patrol, no one was going to hear them. She took a seat next to the bed. "What is your real name?"_

 _Panic flew across his face, only to be replaced by an even deeper despair. "I… I'm Matthew. I'm your son."_

" _No," she said gently, "you're not Matthew." She touched his right leg despite knowing he couldn't feel it. "Matthew had a deep scar on his calf, from a dog bite. You don't." She switched to German, to make it clear. "You took Matthew's place. How did that happen?"_

 _He lowered his eyes in defeat. Isobel didn't take any pride in that, she suspected she had taken the man's one last lingering hope, that he could at least not end up as a prisoner of war in his state. Finally, he said softly, "We captured him. He was trying to get a wounded man back across the lines. He would only tell us his name and rank and… my captain started laughing how… how he looked like me. Then he and the colonel decided to send me back in his place since I speak English, so I could spy and sabotage the English. But… once I was with the English, I couldn't figure out any way to get word to our side and there was nothing to sabotage and… then I was wounded."_

" _Is Matthew dead? Was he killed when the decision was made for you to take his place?" She braced herself for the answer._

 _He flinched back. "I don't know. We'd had to knock him out to get his uniform. The captain… he didn't believe in taking prisoners but the colonel was a merciful man." He hesitated. "You should check the POW lists but…" He looked away, obviously not wanting to say it. "He was alive when I crossed the lines but…"_

 _Isobel steeled herself. "If you were to be a spy, then Matthew would never have been registered as a prisoner." Matthew was dead, she told herself, and now is not the time to collapse in grief. "The mercy in this," she said softly as she took his hand, "is that you didn't kill Matthew. Do you understand why I say that?"_

 _After a long moment, he nodded. "I… my mother and father… they fought a great deal about me. I don't look like either of them. Father would call me the African cuckoo in the nest when he had drunk too much. My mother insisted I be schooled in England, which my father hated but allowed and when I balked at going to Cambridge instead of the university in Cologne, she finally told me the truth…" He gripped her hand and it was as if she knew what he was going to say. "She did a terrible thing."_

" _She did," Isobel agreed, because she couldn't lie about how she felt, "but I understand why she did it."_

 _He nodded. "She had lost a child, she and Father were traveling, visiting his holdings in Johannesburg. She went to an English maternity clinic… her grandmother was English so she didn't have the prejudice that the Boers did and… the doctor's wife had twin boys the same day she lost her child." She could see him turn white from emotion. "My father… was very demanding, Mrs. Crawley. He expected a son, to inherit the barony. She was desperate. There was a baby boy in the nursery, she took him because he was a twin, the mother wouldn't be completely devastated. But then she began to feel guilty. She wanted me schooled in England because she wanted me to know who I really was…" He clenched her hand. "I'm sorry… this must be a nightmare for you…"_

" _I've had better days," Isobel agreed, "but if this war has taken a son from me, it's brought another back. You didn't answer me before… what did your mother name you?"_

 _He smiled slightly. "Jupp. Jupp von Rostenburg." Then he hesitated. "What… what did you name me?"_

" _Marcus. Your name is Marcus Crawley." She shook off the shock in an instant. This is dangerous, she reminded herself, no matter who he really is, if he's found out, he could be executed as a spy. "But you must be Matthew, at least until the war ends. I can protect you but you must accept his place here and remember the things I tell you. You've made mistakes but they've been ignored because of your injuries but you must listen to me, and be very careful."_

 _The despair returned to his expression. "I can hardly run away."_

 _That allowed her to be firm. "There are worse things… Matthew."_

Isobel was quiet for a long moment. "I couldn't… I couldn't turn him in. He'd done nothing but follow orders and he'd never passed any information to the Germans. And I watched the lists from the Red Cross like a hawk and so did he, and when the war ended and Matthew's name never appeared… we accepted the hand fate had dealt. He was still in the wheelchair then, and Germany was in chaos and… I didn't see the point in upsetting the family."

"Yes, the situation now is so much less upsetting now," Violet said dryly. Still, she supposed it wasn't as awful as it could be. George, at least, wasn't a German.

"When he regained the ability to walk… I think we both took it as a sign that having him be Matthew was a good thing." Isobel smiled slightly. "They really were very much alike. He was trained in law like Matthew, he liked the same sorts of activities and books…"

"He had the same taste in women," Violet said after a long moment. "Or did he?" That was the crux of the matter.

"If," Isobel's voice took on a harsh tone, "you're suggesting I told him to marry a woman to maintain the lie, I won't lie, I did. And Lavinia wasn't happier for it, now was she?" She looked down at her hands, wringing them. "He liked Lavinia, but he didn't love her the way Matthew loved her. And he fell in love with Mary when she was trying so desperately to nurse him back to health. He loved Mary." Isobel gave Violet a harsh look. "And if you would think about it beyond Mary and Mary's embarrassment, you'd see that. If you think I'm not upset and devastated over what a mess I've made of her life, you're wrong. I just… It wasn't dishonest. He loved her, he wanted to marry her. He told me, the day George was born, that he was going to tell Mary once she was recovered from the birth. He didn't want to cast a shadow over his son's life by telling a lie."

They **were** twins, Violet thought with amusement, with the same sense of honor and the same tendency to not understand that others didn't possess that sense of honor and often didn't appreciate it. "That would have been a mistake."

"I agree," Isobel said easily, "but it never happened. And I thought, on that dark day, that I was putting both of my sons to rest, that they were both gone. And now Matthew is on the train, on his way home, and I have no idea what I am going to do."

"Because," Violet realized, "you're considering not telling him." She could see why. Matthew had never been a man who sought out unpleasant truths. He would be looking for ways to forgive, so that he could get past the reality that he'd been replaced in their hearts. Mary had already told them that he was struggling but trying very hard to find reasons to not lay blame. If her own thoughts went to the idea that Isobel might have found it easier to deny his death with a pretender in place, it would surely occur to Matthew as well. "I'll trust your judgement then. I was going to recommend letting him get settled back into his life before you shatter everything he knew about you." She gripped Isobel's hand gently. "This is your story to share, not mine. Until then, I will be silent. And I will support whatever decision you come to."

"Thank you," Isobel said. "I need to be certain I do what's best for Matthew and I need to see him, and to see how he is before… I tell him the truth. I need to be certain he's real. Oh Violet… I don't deserve this miracle."

"Perhaps not but regardless, you have it, so be wise with what you do with it, Isobel." Violet let herself smile. "And remember my earlier advise. Work on being sincere when you lie. Matthew was never a suspicious man but he has a clever brain and will see through you if you lie as poorly to him as you did to me."


	5. Chapter 5

The train began to slow, and Matthew began to brace himself for the onslaught. He'd asked that they not make a fuss. Mary had been so shocked to see him, it made him dread how everyone else would react, his mother most of all.

She had sounded well on the telephone, he reminded himself. Apologetic, but well. He was no doctor, but he'd known enough elderly people in his life to know the signs of someone who was slipping away mentally. Such declines weren't always noticeable at first, but while he could believe she could have misidentified the imposter in error, he couldn't believe that after five years that her only sign of decline was that.

That meant she either knew the man was an imposter and aided him in tricking the entire family, possibly out of grief and kindness, or she was so bereft at the thought of his passing that propping up a spy and pretending made the grief easier to bear. Whatever answer it is, he reminded himself as the train finally rolled to a stop, I must try to be understanding. This is awkward enough without acting like a petulant little boy, he reminded himself. Whatever the reason, he told himself, it had been a nightmare for her and was painful and humiliating now. She was at best, a mother who had mistaken a stranger for her own child. There were, he was certain, plenty of people already taking her to task for that.

At the same time, he accepted that he didn't have the patience of a saint. Stopping himself from being angry was getting harder and harder as every ridiculous circumstance played out. The most recent affront to his senses was discovering that Lavinia's father had bequeathed his entire fortune to the imposter. The spy promptly turned around and handed the money to Robert. Who promptly spent it on the estate, all while somehow assigning some sort of joint ownership of the estate to one Matthew Crawley. It was obscene on so many levels, and a giant mess since the imposter had bequeathed his share of the estate to Lady Mary with the understand that Mary's son would inherit it all, and now the boy was completely disinherited.

Not that Matthew intended for the lad, or Mary for that matter, to be put to the streets, or anything like that. It was just going to be painfully awkward to unwind the mess and treat everyone fairly. He hadn't intended the diamonds he had stolen from his captors to be used for anything more than bribes to save his life, but it was now a small source of comfort to him, to know his financial fate, at least, was assured. Assured and not connected to the estate. Considering how jumpy and nervous being back in the world of civilization made him, it was a relief to know he could take his time looking for a new job and didn't have to burden the family.

As he stepped off the train onto the station landing, he realized with pleasure that it was just his mother and Robert waiting to greet him. Robert looked older and a little heavier, while his mother had hardly aged at all. Which explained, he thought with no small amount of amusement, how he had spent years in the wilds and barely looked a year older. Even Sir Richard had remarked on it. We may not look like mother and son, he mused, but we do share some traits.

He set down his small valise and put aside all the troubling questions. "Mother… I'm sorry I'm a bit late. I hope I haven't ruined dinner, yet again." It was a call back to when he'd been a boy and come home late from whatever boyish thing he'd been up to, and his mother would chastise him for making the meal late.

"Oh Matthew." Her voice hitched and she pulled him into her arms and hugged him as though she would never let him go again. Quietly, she said, the words shaking as she spoke, "I don't deserve this miracle, I don't, but oh, what a joy it is to see you." She was holding him so tightly he could feel her body trembling. When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet with tears that she wiped away as Robert stepped forward to clasp his hand.

"My dear fellow," Robert said warmly. "It's so good to see you. I know… that there's many things making this awkward but please do understand how delighted we all were to hear that you had survived and returned to us."

It was heartfelt, Matthew could see it in the man's face, and in the firmness of the handshake. Whatever worry it was causing Robert, he was indeed, delighted to see Matthew alive. "Thank you, Robert." He looked around, taking it all in. "It's been almost six years and yet Downton Village seems hardly changed." It was a relief, to be honest. London had been much busier and noisier. There had been more cars around, to where he felt like he was constantly jumping from the honking horns.

"Oh, there's a few differences," Robert said easily. "If you like, I'll take you out tomorrow and show you the new things. Also, while I know your mother wanted the two of you to have a quiet dinner tonight, you are both invited to the Abbey for a celebratory dinner tomorrow."

Matthew smiled. Robert was nothing if not predictable. No matter how awkward the situation was, Robert wasn't going to let it stop him from extending a traditional invitation. "That sounds lovely on all accounts, Robert."

Robert wished them both well and in minutes, Matthew found himself walking beside his mother, heading towards Crawley House as though he'd just gotten off the train from Ripon from his old job and his mother had come to meet him. It was disarming how quickly he fell into the old pattern, and he didn't know if that was good or bad.

"You're limping," she said suddenly, as they entered the house. "You're limping and you're shivering. Are you all right?"

"I'm shivering because I just can't seem to get warm in England," Matthew said as he stepped through the threshold. "I'm limping because I hurt my knee and ankle and the cold makes them ache."

"How…" she hesitated and then seemed to steel herself. "How did you hurt your knee and ankle?"

Is this where we begin, Matthew wondered. He took off his jacket. "I hurt my ankle falling down a mine shaft. There was no doctor in the slave camp so I just splinted it with my boot. I hurt my knee when I took a tumble down a cliff while trying to avoid a trampling herd of zebras. I was fortunate that some Xhosa tribesmen took pity on me and helped me hide and recover."

"How dreadful," Isobel said quietly. "You should have Dr. Clarkson examine you" She held up her hand to stave off a protest. "There may be no helping the damage, I know that, but it doesn't hurt to have a competent doctor have a look. You look far too thin, for example. For someone who spent so much time burning in the African sun, you look very pale."

"Well," Matthew offered, cocking his head quizzically, "I've had quite a lot of shocking news thrown at me since my return to England. On the one hand, I am pleasantly surprised to see you so well. On the other, I find myself wondering what hand you had in this grand farce. And why." It came out sharper than he intended, but he didn't back down.

"That's fair," Isobel said carefully. "But you've traveled all day. Perhaps you'd like to eat before you begin your inquisition? It's just the two of us tonight, because I knew you'd have questions."

They ate dinner mostly in silence. He couldn't deny being hungry after traveling most of the day and it didn't escape him that most of his favorites graced the table. It also didn't escape him that his mother was watching him eat with a clinical eye. He made a point of eating a reasonable amount, even though his stomach was sour from the tension. It was a learned habit, it had been so common for there to not be enough food, it was hard to not eat when food was finally in reach.

Isobel began to clear the table. "I have some things you'll want to see," she said, worriedly.

"I've already seen the wedding photos," he offered easily. It hadn't escaped him that there was a prominent framed photograph of the spy and Mary at what was obviously their wedding on the mantel in the parlor. As she came back to the table with a small stack of paper work, he put his hands on the table and looked down. "I understand," he said softly, "if you thought I was dead, if you were grieving and it was easier to pretend, especially if he looked so much like me. I understand if you saw an injured man and wanted to be kind. You were the one who taught me to be kind, and it's those lessons that kept me from sinking down to the level of the people that held me captive… But you let him have my life."

That was what hurt. He understood not wanting to see anyone else die, but that the fantasy continued on after the war ended.

She took a seat at the table next to him and put her hand over his. "I won't deny that grief was part of it. But it was more than grief. It's actually quite complex." She hesitated. "Didn't you ever wonder why the two of you looked so much alike? You said you've seen the pictures. Didn't you wonder?"

"I saw him for possibly ten minutes while I was being beaten," Matthew retorted. "Then I was knocked out and woke up chained in a ship. Frankly, it never even occurred to me that any reasonable person who knew me would be fooled." A flash of guilt crossed her face, and it angered him. "It never occurred to me that you would help him, Mother. But you did… and that's what I don't understand."

0o0o0o0

There will never be a right way to say it, Isobel thought as she gripped his hand. As much as she wanted to wait, because she could see that while he wasn't an invalid, he was shakier physically than he wanted her to know, it was eating at him and that would get worse, the longer she hesitated. "He was your brother, Matthew. You were a twin, the first born. I had you both, and the nurse took him away and a desperate woman, a German woman, stole him away from us." She handed him one of the newspaper clippings she had kept.

He looked at the aged newspaper clipping, his face paling. "Are you saying," he said after a very long moment, "that the spy that took my identity was… this baby that was stolen from you?"

"Yes," she said simply. "You were identical twins. I didn't realize he wasn't you until I saw that the scar on your leg was missing. Then I started to catch the mistakes he was making, that he didn't know the names of people he should. I confronted him, and he admitted he wasn't you… and the story he told made me realize that he had to be your missing brother." She waited, sensing he probably wasn't ready to hear Marcus's story. That's normal, she told herself, Matthew has every right to not embrace this news with joy. Being captured, imprisoned and used as slave labor, running and living on his own for years in hostile countries was a nightmare. Then he returns home to find out his family had embraced an imposter, an imposter that was really a twin brother he didn't know he had. It could be too much, she realized that as she saw his hands shake as he reread the newspaper clipping.

Then he looked up at her, his expression oddly calm. "He was badly injured. Is that why you allowed this… I don't even know what to call it, this falsehood?"

"He couldn't walk, Matthew. If I had revealed him, he would have been sent to a prisoner of war camp and those places were…" She stopped, sensing it wasn't something Matthew wanted to hear.

"I know," he growled, "how unpleasant and lacking in medical care prison camps are, Mother. I think we discussed it earlier." He paused. "Did you think I was dead? Did he tell you that?"

"He wasn't certain." Isobel felt on firmer ground with that. "I thought… He said he didn't see anyone kill you, that you were alive when he was sent across the battle lines. I always thought he was trying to spare me with that. We checked the prisoner lists. We didn't… discuss the situation very often. He was staying at the Abbey because it was easier with the wheelchair and the servants, but as it became clear that the war was going to end, he told me that the moment you were found alive, that the lie had to end. But your name was never on the released prisoners list…" She waited a long moment. "I thought you were dead, Matthew. I thought you were dead, that you'd been killed by the Germans because of the spying plan. And by then he'd been pretending to be you for almost a year… and I suppose inertia took ahold of me. Inertia and an unwillingness to accept you were gone." She wasn't proud of that, that she had allowed the fantasy to play out. Every time she contemplated revealing the truth, she had justified continuing the lie with the thought that it was the kinder option. Matthew would still be dead, Marcus would still face legal issues over being a German spy, and the family would be torn asunder since with Matthew dead and without a son, Marcus the German spy and liar, was the heir to the earldom. It had just been easier to pretend. It had jolted her when Marcus had been so adamant when George was born that Mary needed to be told. It had jolted her because she had stopped thinking of him as Marcus or Jupp, that from about the time he married Mary, she had just let it go.

Matthew nodded and looked down at the newspaper clipping. "Do you know, most of the English prisoners that were with me died in that prison mine before the war ended. We didn't even know the war had ended and that Germany had lost until March of 1919. One of the guards used to laugh at us and tell us that no one was looking for us, that the war was over and no one cared what happened to us. I disagreed with him and he broke his truncheon beating me. Because I was disrespecting him by calling him a liar. Who knew the unpleasant bastard was right?"

"I'm sorry." There was really nothing else to say. She went to take his hand but he pulled it away.

"Don't," he warned. "I'm… not ready to accept any comforting gestures." He set down the newspaper clipping. "I still don't know where to start. I had a brother, a twin brother, that you and Father lied about. When you realized that my identical twin brother had taken my place, you… let him. You replaced me."

"That's not how it was, Matthew," Isobel began, but he glared at her as he stood up.

"When he died, you put my name on the grave, correct?" He waited until she nodded. For an instant, his eyes flashed with anger and it struck her just how much he resembled his father in both looks and temperament. It also struck her that she'd never made that observation in his twin. Finally, much the way his father had, he seemed to shake off his anger. "I… am going to need to some time to digest this all, Mother."

"I understand," Isobel also stood up. "I meant what I said at the train. I don't deserve this miracle. For so many reasons. But I do rejoice in it. If… sometimes it was easy to go along with pretending, that was because it was so much less painful than thinking that you were dead and in some unmarked grave in France. I didn't replace you. I thought… when I realized who was really lying on that hospital bed, that I was being granted a sort of consolation prize, that I was losing one son, but that God was finally granting me a reprieve with the other." She struggled not to cry. "I can't help, as I look at you, but think I've gotten a second reprieve. You're right, we should have told you about Marcus. It was just so painful, we struggled with it as well, and we didn't want you to be unhappy about something you couldn't change."

Matthew crossed his arms and looked down. Quietly, he said, "I still love you, Mother. I'm angry and hurt and I don't really know how I feel about everything you've said tonight, but I am not so angry that I can't forgive you. I just can't do it tonight. I'm going to bed. I assume the family is not privy to this… aspect of the situation?

"Cousin Violet is but she is sworn to secrecy. I wanted to discuss it with you and see how you wanted to handle it." She wasn't sure how he would take that.

"Yet another mess," he sighed. "If you knew how often I daydreamed of returning home…. I never thought it would be one hideous mess after another. That reminds me, is anyone else dead? Aside from Lavinia, and Sybil, William, and my identical twin brother who married my ex fiancé and had a child with her before dying in a car wreck? Is there any other news?"

She said the first thing that came to her. "Bates and Anna got married after he was exonerated for the murder of his first wife. And Thomas the footman was almost arrested for sodomy."

Matthew blinked. "When I consider all the people I've had to kill in the last few years, Downton Abbey has quite the rogues gallery. I'm going to get some sleep and hopefully this will look less awful in the morning." He smiled slightly. "I didn't think it could get any more awful than a German spy successfully assuming my identity, and yet here we are. Good night, Mother."

Isobel forced herself to not follow after him. He's a grown man, she reminded herself, this was a shock to him but he'll handle it. I just need to give him time.

She hoped she was right.


	6. Chapter 6

Robert led Matthew into the library, exasperated that the weather had thwarted his plan to have a quiet afternoon with Matthew, showing him the estate and the things that had changed. But it had begun to rain, lightly at first, and then with the heavy steady droplets that told him it wasn't going to stop until the next day. Dragging Matthew from muddy wet cottages to muddy wet fields was hardly enjoyable.

Matthew, to give the poor chap credit, had been nothing but pleasant. As the man took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs in the library, Robert found himself wondering what Matthew was really thinking. "Perhaps you'd like some tea, Matthew?"

"Yes, thank you, Robert." Matthew smiled wryly. "Tea would certainly ease how painfully awkward this is."

Robert couldn't help it, he chuckled. "Oh, thank heavens someone is willing to say it." He quickly stopped his laughter. "I suppose tea is hardly going to make things right." There was never a right time for what he felt compelled to say but he forced himself to say it. "I am sorry, Matthew. You're owed an apology by every member of this family, including me."

"That's not necessary, Robert." Matthew sounded weary.

"It is necessary," Robert insisted. "For god's sake, that… man lived here for years." What was worse was knowing that the man sitting so patiently in the library had clearly suffered during those years. Robert suddenly wondered how Isobel was handling the news beyond the sheer joy that Matthew was alive. Matthew was a good and forgiving sort of man, but five years of hell was a lot to forgive, especially with a homecoming so shocking.

Matthew eyed him, carefully considering his words. "I'm told," he said finally, "that the poor fellow was badly wounded. No one is themselves when wounded. You know that, Robert, and you knew that when this man… perhaps wasn't acting the way you expected me to act, you remembered how wounds can make a man mad, and you ignored the differences. And then as everyone became more used to him, there was less to ignore." He sighed. "I forgive you, Robert, the same way I already forgave Mary. It's not worth being angry about."

"That's extremely generous, Matthew." Robert wondered about that. "May I ask why you're being so generous with our utter failure to rout out a spy?"

"Because, Robert," and Matthew managed to smile although Robert got the impression the younger man was trying very hard to seem nonchalant and accepting, "the unpleasant truth of my situation in being held prisoner is that you could have identified that man as a spy within minutes of talking to him and I would still have spent five years in Africa."

"No," Robert countered, although he suddenly understood what Matthew was driving at. "If we had… discovered the spy, I assure you we would have been at the war office, demanding your return."

"Mother said my name never came up on the captured list, so with the spy captured, and my not returning when the war ended when the other prisoners were released…" Matthew shrugged. "You would have assumed I was dead and buried as an unknown combatant. You had no reason to think I was alive. That means I have no right to feel resentment towards you or anyone here at the Abbey about my incarceration in Namibia. Even if you'd been told the man impersonating me was a spy, you couldn't have known where I was when the war ended." He leaned back in the chair. "I don't want to be angry over things that couldn't be helped. Frankly, when Mary and I saw each other in London, it occurred to me how difficult this must be for all of you." Matthew looked down at his hands, the scars on his wrists just visible. "I'm not a saint, Robert. I'm sure at some point you and I will have cross words and I will say something ugly because if I learned anything in Africa, it's that I do have a temper, but I am endeavoring to remind myself how certain events would have happened regardless." He smiled, and again Robert sensed he was forcing himself to be cheerful. "I would have been interred in a prison camp regardless of whether you knew about the spy or not. Am I hurt and offended that I was so easily replaced? Yes. But I don't think you or Mary, or anyone in this household had any reason to think, if the spy was discovered, that I wasn't dead and buried."

"I can't imagine that's much comfort," Robert offered.

"Small comfort is better than none at all." Matthew said it in a breezy fashion. "Besides, the truth is that I don't like feeling angry and enraged all of the time, especially at family." His eyes grew intent. "This ugliness has happened. It can't be changed. I want to… reestablish myself and begin to live my life again. I can't do that if I spend every waking moment being angry over how easily I was replaced."

Robert decided to ignore the faint tinge of bitterness that surrounded that comment. Matthew was trying, he could see it, to be pleasant and to allow the awkwardness to pass without demanding too much. Still, Robert thought as he looked the man over carefully, this will need a gentle hand. Too many men had come back from the war as damaged souls and Matthew's experiences, even when glossed over and prettied up for the newspapers, sounded horrific. We'll need to be patient, Robert decided, but it's a good sign that he's looking for reasons to forgive.

It also made him wonder. "I accept your forgiveness then as I am sure everyone here will do. Have you extended this forgiveness to your mother?"

"No." Matthew seemed to regret the sharp edge on his words. "Not yet. We talked last night. I am still considering what she said." He sighed more heavily. "I'm not a saint, Robert. I know how harsh it sounds, that I won't forgive my mother, but try to understand."

"I'm not judging." Robert wasn't certain he knew what there was to judge. Isobel had as shocked and horrified as everyone else. Her grief and guilt had been clear to everyone. At the same time, Mary's angry bitter words rang in his ears, that no one who had ever seen the scar on Matthew's leg would forget it. This is the trouble, he realized, there's trouble between Matthew and Isobel that won't be easily resolved. I must, he told himself, endeavor to support them both through this. Unlike Mary, who hadn't been a parent for very long in the grand scheme of things, he had wondered if Isobel had been unable to face what she had to have suspected. "I can't judge, I am guilty of the same error she has made. But… if it's very awkward between the two of you, I do want you to consider staying here at the Abbey."

"I appreciate that, Robert. But I think that might be awkward here and I'm mindful of how that would hurt Mother and encourage people to talk even more." Matthew looked down at his hands. "What I might ask… is that you not push Mother or I on this. There are things that need to be considered that you aren't yet aware of. I know, because I saw how deeply shocked and wounded Mary was when we first saw each other, that my return was not going to be easy for any of us. I admit… to finding returning here to be more unsettling than I expected and I am sure Mother feels the same." He managed a wry smile. "Frankly, I suspect everyone finds it unsettling."

"I won't deny it," Robert admitted, "but it is good to have you here, alive." Perhaps, Robert thought, it was time to turn the topic to things less painful and awkward. "I don't envy the time in the diamond mines, but I do admit a certain envy and admiration that you were able to see so much of the veldt. When I was in Africa, we were too busy fighting the Boers to see what the countryside was like. Did you really see a pride of lions kill an antelope like in the news story? Wait, perhaps you should tell the tale at dinner so we can all enjoy it."

Matthew smiled genuinely. "I'm afraid it's not that much of a tale since I watched the whole sorry business from the tree I was hiding in."

0o0o0o0

The talk at dinner was painfully awkward. Mary didn't pretend to be a keen observer of people, but she could tell that there was something between Matthew and Isobel. They weren't easy with each other. Matthew wasn't snapping at her, he was firmly polite but there was a certain touch of angry glare in his eyes. And Isobel, normally outspoken, was surprisingly quiet all throughout dinner. Happy of course, but worried, no doubt about Matthew and how difficult the adjustment would be.

She worried about that as well. Her own pain was still there, like a bitter river running through her heart, but it wasn't the same. She felt betrayed, by her own mind, and by the smiling, handsome man who had knowingly lied to her about being Matthew. She had told him everything, given him everything, only to find out she'd been a complete and utter fool. The only way it could be worse was if the spy hadn't died… and yet every time she had that harsh thought, she remembered the funeral, and her eyes filled with unshed tears. The worst was knowing that she had loved him, whoever he really was, and there was no way to deny it. To deny it meant denying her own son and George was probably the only reason she had stayed sane during her grief. That she had loved the imposter made her hesitant with Matthew. He had been kind in London, in part because Matthew was simply a kind man by nature, and possibly because he'd been so shocked and overwhelmed. Rose had later told her that no one had told Matthew about Sybil's death until she had accidently revealed it to him, and that had been mere minutes before he'd been allowed to see her. She wasn't due his love or even his friendship after betraying him so terribly, but she had meant it when she had told Tom that she intended to do whatever she could to help Matthew. The problem of course was that she doubted he would be willing to accept her help, not after she had so grossly betrayed him. For most of the dinner, she let him set the course, and he seemed willing to engage everyone equally. He was pleasant but guarded, and that seemed reasonable to her. It was awkward, after all.

But, when dinner ended and he excused himself from the after dinner discussion and headed towards the servants stairwell, she found herself following him. Discreetly, of course, she waited a few moments before excusing herself as well and then made her way to the servants hall. Everyone jumped as she entered. "I saw Mr. Crawley come down here. Was he looking for someone? Where did he go?"

The servants all looked at Barrow. He gave her an odd look. "Mr. Crawley came in and asked me if I still smoked cigarettes. When I said yes, he asked me for one and where his lordship preferred the servants to smoke, and I showed him the side yard where his lordship prefers us to smoke." He smiled just a little. "I can show you as well, if you like, Lady Mary."

If she took Barrow up on his offer, the servants would talk, but she nodded agreement and followed him down the narrow hallway to the side yard. The servants were talking and would talk regardless, she had no doubt about that, and it was Matthew she was concerned about. She also caught a faint air of concern from Barrow as well, a small surprise. The under butler tucked his pack of cigarettes into her hand. "I suspect Mr. Crawley might like more than one, to settle his nerves."

"Thank you, Barrow." The side yard was much as she remembered it from when she was a child, it had been rare moments that she'd even been allowed there. It was almost a surprise that Carson hadn't fussed. The air smelled damp and fresh, from the earlier rain storm and the moon was beginning to shine through the clouds. Matthew was in the corner, smoking, and staring up at the sky, his expression pensive. She walked over to him, careful to keep the sort of distance that they had maintained when they had first met as distant cousins, even though every inch of her wanted to touch him. "I don't mean to disturb you, Matthew, but it will likely be noticed that you haven't returned." She hesitated. "I didn't know you smoked."

"I don't." Matthew waved the cigarette as he spoke. "In the war… smoking a cigarette would kill the smell of the bodies. It also took the shakes away from the sounds of the bombs bursting. And all afternoon and evening today…" He shrugged, and inhaled the cigarette smoke deeply.

She nodded in understanding. "It's been thundering all afternoon and evening. And you can hardly beg off your welcome home dinner, am I right?" She held out the pack of cigarettes. "Barrow thought you might want another."

He took the pack gratefully. "I try not to indulge, there can't really be anything remotely healthy about smoking. But yes, I am trying to settle my nerves and failing, it seems."

"Has it been so terrible? Your homecoming?" Again, she hesitated, but decided to try to keep it light. "I didn't think it could be much worse than our first meeting."

"No one has fainted in shock, no," Matthew said dryly as he lit another cigarette. "I suppose, it's more the things that none of us are talking about." He sighed. "I'm not even sure what Sybil's husband's name is, for all that he's been friendly and pleasant. It's… odd how disconcerting it is. I found out that Sybil and Lavinia had died just weeks ago. And poor William. I feel like I should be wearing a black armband, and mourning and yet… it's like they're both gone and forgotten, and I… I feel like a terrible fellow to not be wearing my grief on my sleeve."

"You… might be misunderstanding," Mary said carefully. "We haven't forgotten them. But with Lavinia, it's been four years. When it happened, oh goodness, it was during the influenza epidemic and it seemed like everyone had someone that had died from it…" It had been a lengthy grieving period for the whole community. And Matthew… the spy, her husband whose real name she hadn't known, had grieved and blamed himself for betraying her. She knew that guilt had been real, and she put her own sudden thoughts about that aside. "We all grieved, Matthew. But it was years ago, and with Sybil…" She found the tears suddenly rising and forced them away. "It was just so shocking. Sometimes I expect to turn the corner and see her, and good god, I'm standing here talking to you after I buried you, and that makes it so much worse." She wiped her eyes. "I can't even imagine how Tom feels. But please, Matthew, as much as we've earned your every harsh thought and word over mistaking that man for you, please don't believe we never mourned the others we've lost."

For a moment, she thought she saw him blink back tears as well. Then he dropped his head and took a long puff on his cigarette. "I forget, I suppose, that this has been a nightmare for more than just myself. Perhaps tomorrow, you'd take me to where Lavinia, and her father, and Sybil are buried? I'd like to pay my respects."

"Of course, I will." Mary watched him finish the cigarette. I have to ask, she decided, and I am asking because I am worried. "Is everything all right between you and your mother? You both seem at odds." Considering Isobel had mistaken another man for him, Mary had some idea of what the problem was.

He shrugged. "We talked last night about the situation. You sum it up well. We're at odds. Time will tell. I am undecided on so many things, I've decided to allow myself the time to really consider what she told me."

"What could she have said other than an apology?" Mary snapped. "Matthew, how in this world could she have not noticed that your scar was missing?" She regretted it as soon as she said it, because it was as if she had slapped him across the face. His expression darkened with anger, something she had rarely seen from him.

"It's not my place to answer that," he said finally. "But I assure you, what she told me makes me less angry and more forgiving. I just… can't… process or accept it, and that lack makes me angry with myself."

"Will I be angry when I find out what she told you?" Because it would come out eventually, and Mary had her own anger over the situation. It was, in comparison to Matthew's woes, not as important that her marriage had been a lie, but she felt like a stupid fool.

Matthew looked at her intently. "Before I answer that… may I ask you a question?" He waited for her to nod. "Did you love him?"

It took her back but she was so used to being open with him, even though her rational mind was reminded her that her husband wasn't actually Matthew, she spoke the truth. "Yes, I loved him. I don't even know his name, really, but I did love him. I loved him almost beyond reason." She sniffed. "And I hate myself for saying that to you, because I loved you and I regretted that we didn't marry, and I've betrayed you in the worst way possible."

Matthew smiled slightly. "You didn't betray me, Mary, by loving someone that wasn't me. And for what it is worth, you'll be angry when you discover what I know, but then it will make it easier for you. I'm certain of that. As for regrets, I agree, I wish we had married when we first planned it. I remember bringing Lavinia here and realizing not only was I making you unhappy, I was damning Lavinia to a life that made her miserable all while I still loved you." His expression grew pensive, and he pointed to the moon. "Do you know, in Africa, the stars are different?"

"I didn't know that," she admitted.

"They are." His eyes were like silver shimmers in the moonlight. "The moon was the same though, and I would look up at it at night and hope that you were happy and that Lavinia had found someone else to love. Sometimes I would wish that the stars would change, and I'd find myself back home. But for all that I wish the stars were different for us, don't ever think that I am angry with you because you found love with someone else."

The problem, Mary realized, was that she was certain she didn't deserve his forgiveness.


	7. Chapter 7

"Are we going to simply not speak to each other?" Isobel poured him a cup of tea as she spoke. Then she took a seat across the table from him. The simplicity, the familiarity of it, struck him like a blow. It was eerie to feel the rush of memories, good memories, surround him. Matthew knew, without any need to contemplate it, that he wanted to let it go and have a cheerful breakfast where they talked about what had happened while he was away and what he planned to do with himself. The reality was that he had no plans at all. He was a rich man, the diamonds he'd taken when he had escaped were considered fair restitution for his years of unlawful enslavement. The German government made no claims at all, other than to have the ambassador apologize profusely to him. He could, if he wished, spend his life doing exactly what he pleased. He certainly didn't have to work and with the awkwardness of his return and Mary's marriage, he suspected no one would mind if he decided to find a different quiet village to live in.

He wanted to talk about it with someone, and yet to discuss it with his mother was to ignore the reality that while he was away, struggling to survive, his mother was likely having similar pleasant breakfasts with the imposter.

"I doubt you'd like to hear what I was thinking," he said finally. He looked at his full plate, and felt his stomach begin to clench.

"On the contrary." Isobel took the seat across from him and began buttering her toast. "You're angry with me and you're bottling it up instead of expressing it." She waited a long moment. "I want you to be well, Matthew, and happy. You may never forgive me, I accept that, and that I deserve it. You don't have to walk on egg shells about it."

"Fine," Matthew snapped. "I was thinking how many times you must have had pleasant breakfast chats with the German spy that was really my twin brother, and I wondered if you ever really gave me a thought after you convinced your other son to be me. I was also wondering why you never considered how having Marcus impersonate me… I assume you prefer we call him Marcus and not by his German name, just might devastate our family?"

She dropped the toast she was holding. "Of course, I thought of you, Matthew."

"Really?" He let the anger rise up. "You insisted he use my name. There were no obvious physical differences, and you helped him assume my identity by teaching him how to be me. By all reports, he was apparently much more acceptable to Lord Grantham, with his interest in running this archaic estate and becoming lord of the castle. Robert got everything he wanted, an heir that he could bend to his wishes and his eldest daughter essentially inheriting. And you…. You get to ignore reality. You didn't even have to mourn me."

She rocked back in her chair, as if he had slapped her with his hand and not his words. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts. "I understand why you're angry," she began.

"I really doubt that, Mother." It felt good to let the rage out. "Do you know, I used to dream of returning home, of being welcomed back and making my friends and family with the joy of knowing I wasn't dead. Can you imagine what this has been like? Knowing that my reappearance has made everyone miserable? Miserable, and shamed, and unhappy. I've destroyed Mary's life by returning. Her son, your grandson, is disinherited by my reappearance and will be publicly known as the child of a German spy. The entire family is a bloody joke in the news rags. The only solace I have is knowing poor Lavinia never knew she was engaged to a complete lie. Everyone who I ever knew is currently embarrassed and ashamed by my presence and apologize to me the moment they see me. And then we stand about awkwardly because they're embarrassed that they were taken in by a spy and my asking them questions about the last six years generally leads to more awkward embarrassment. All I have done is make the people I care about unhappy. I can't even spare them by telling them why they were fooled so easily. Because that will put you at the center of their rage. Worse, it will rake up the mess in the newspapers even more." If returning from the dead was newsworthy, then he was certain that being replaced by a lost twin would be a headline story.

"That's not true, Matthew." Her voice shook with emotion. "That's so far from the truth. We are all happy you're alive. If people are embarrassed, it's because they know how you suffered and feel terrible that they were taken in. This… awkwardness will pass." She seemed to brace herself. "Matthew, I'm sorry for what I did. I just… can't make it right. I can't turn back the clock and make different choices. What I can do is tell the family the truth. About Marcus and why I suggested the subterfuge."

"What good would that do?" he asked tiredly. "I'm angry with you, Mother. I don't hate you. If you confess this, you could be arrested for aiding a spy."

"Do you think that's likely? Really?" Isobel sniffed. "What with the circumstances…"

"Do you want to test it? Really, Mother, I know you've been to English prisons… I'm angry with you but not so angry that I want you in prison." He stopped. It was, he realized, good to know that there was a line in the sand where his rage wouldn't cross. "It's not just that, although I think you're badly mistaken if you don't think it's a possibility." He sighed. "It wouldn't change anything. Except that along with being embarrassed and ashamed, they would also be angry with you. It would just make things worse."

"It would help you, I think." Isobel's expression grew softer. "it's a secret and secrets fester. You can ask me questions, you know. Marcus… had so many questions about you." She reached out to take his hand.

He pulled it away. Then he stood up. "He had so many questions, Mother, because he was trying to be me. I don't want to see you imprisoned because I understand that this was horrific for you. But I have not forgiven this. Now, I am going to the cemetery."

"The cemetery?" Isobel asked. She looked at him with concern.

"I was going to visit Lady Sybil's grave and give my respects. And to visit Lavinia's grave. We were in love, you know. I did intend to marry her. And instead, as I understand the course of events, she died the night before she was scheduled to marry my twin brother, who she believed was me." He pushed back the rush of emotions the words brought. "I suppose my consolation is that she died before she could unknowingly betray me."

"No, that's not what happened." Isobel wiped her eyes. "Marcus… fell in love with Mary and Lavinia realized that the night she died. She told him that night that she wouldn't marry him. She was a fine woman and she never betrayed you."

"That makes her different than the rest of the women in my life, doesn't it?" He grabbed his jacket and hat and stalked out of the house before his mother could think of a retort. He was walking down the tree lined cobbled street when his emotions finally overtook him, and he almost collapsed from the force of it. It's never going to get better, he thought suddenly. And I don't know if I can handle it if it gets any worse.


	8. Chapter 8

Mary made a point of not dressing up that morning. She didn't plan to pursue Matthew, after all, she was at best hoping they could at least be friends again. She was also taking him to the cemetery to visit the graves of people he had loved. Worse, she also knew that he felt off put and upset that his grief was somehow unusual and knowing that, she made a point of wearing a dress that was darker and less ornate. They were all suffering, she wouldn't deny the pain she felt herself, but Matthew was suffering the most. I will do everything I can to help him, she reminded herself. He deserves to have someone in his corner, and there seemed to be very few willing to step up. Her father was trying, she wouldn't deny that, so was her mother and Edith and Tom, but there was so much awkwardness. Sir Richard so far had been a better friend to Matthew than the family had a right to expect in helping him reestablish himself but Mary suspected that would only go so far. Richard wasn't by nature a kind man and it hadn't escaped her that he was likely making a lot of money off of Matthew's story. It occurred to her, as she made her way down the grand staircase, that it might not be a bad idea to talk to Sir Richard, as much as she dreaded it. She didn't like the idea of encouraging a friendship with a man she disliked, but Matthew needed someone outside the direct family to talk to. Richard was an ass, but he likely wanted more adventure stories to sell newspapers and she knew he could be pleasant company when he wanted.

Matthew was in the library, drinking a cup of tea while he waited for her to take him to the cemetery. He looks upset, she thought with a start as she took in his pale, wan face, upset and ill. It is becoming too much for him, she realized. She would never call Matthew a man of delicate mind and body, but he had been through a physical and mental wringer and had no one to turn to for help. That will change, she decided.

He stood when she entered the room, and smiled. "Lady Mary, hello. Thank you again for agreeing to this… awkward request."

Mary smiled. She'd forgotten how nervous he could be with her. "It's not awkward at all," she lied. "Now come along."

The walk was mostly silent. She didn't want to press him, and oddly, she wanted to be respectful as well. He was grieving, for Sybil, Lavinia, and William, and she didn't want him to feel odd about something so natural.

At William's grave, he was quiet, saying only that he had liked the young fellow and had intended to see him raised up in the world. Mary nodded and held her tongue. William had been a good lad, and clever, but she suspected William would have been happiest if he'd been allowed to be a groom and not a footman or a soldier.

Then, in front of Lavinia's grave, he crossed his arms and shivered as he looked at the gravestone. "Influenza, of all things…" He sighed. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to do this."

It almost made her laugh, because she knew exactly why he was so awkward and then she reminded herself of her earlier vow. "Why? Because I might be shocked with the notion that you loved Lavinia and wanted to marry her?" She smiled at him. "I was there for that, you know. For what it's worth, if anyone other than I had to take you away from me, I was glad it was Lavinia. I liked her. As much as I wanted to be angry with her, I couldn't help but like her. What were you two planning?" She eyed him. "Come now, you weren't planning to live here at Downton when you married Lavinia, were you?"

After a moment, he nodded agreement. "She admitted to me, after her first visit, that she liked you, and Edith and Sybil, but that she had no interest in living in Downton Abbey until I was the Earl and could… alleviate some problems."

That was a surprise. "Dare I ask what the problems were?" Mary asked.

Matthew chuckled suddenly. "I shouldn't… Oh she hated Carson, Mary. Said the man glared daggers at her at every meal. She expected you to be unkind, because of our engagement and was pleasantly surprised that the two of you became friends but apparently Carson made it very clear that she was completely unacceptable to be the future Countess. She made me promise that Carson would be gently but firmly retired the day we moved in. She called it my first marital promise." He chuckled ruefully and then the mirth died away. "We were going to live in London, actually. I was going to join her father's firm and do corporate law again. I decided during the war that I wasn't going to spend my life waiting for your father to die, he didn't need or want me meddling with the estate, and frankly if his mother is any indicator, it was going to be a good thirty years before I became the Earl. We were going to be happy Londoners with occasional visits to York, bringing our children to play with their many cousins." He sighed again. "That sounds so ridiculous now."

"Why?" Mary hadn't planned to lecture him but she suspected he needed it. "It was a lovely plan the two of you had, it suited you both. It would have made you happy." She wondered how to make him see. Finally, she led him over to Sybil's tombstone. "Sybil and I were with child just three months apart and oh how we planned our first Christmas with our babies." She smiled suddenly, despite the painful place the memory took her. "We were going to dress them like little angels and make Papa hold them both at the same time for a picture and everything was going to be perfect… But that never happened. By the time Christmas came along, we were a household draped in black. Poor Tom and I spent Christmas day trying to out drink each other… That doesn't mean I don't cherish the memory of our plans. You're allowed to have good memories of Lavinia. Yes, we were both fools and we should have gotten married in 1914 for so many reasons… but we didn't. And we regret it but we still have fond memories of each other. I know I do, at least."

That got him to smile. "I suppose I have a few fond memories of that time. And of you." He stepped back from Sybil's grave, his eyes growing dark. "Where is his grave?"

Mary had expected that question. "Over here." She led him to the large gravestone. There were flowers on it, which surprised her and didn't all at once. She had rarely been able to face Matthew's grave after his death, but when she had, there were always flowers there. Flowers that Isobel had left.

Flowers that made her suddenly angry, but she choked that down. "I suppose," she said carefully, "that we will need to have the name chiseled when we find out what it is." At Matthew's surprised expression, she continued on, her tone firm, "He was my son's father. We were married in a church. One day George will want to know these things. He might even want to take his father's name. What did you say it was?"

Matthew hesitated. "It's Von Rostenburg. Jupp… Jupp Von Rostenburg." He paused. "I remember now, his first name. One of the others said 'good luck Jupp'…" His voice trailed off. "I suppose I should tell the investigators that…"

Mary almost bit her tongue. If I wasn't doubting everything I know about you, she thought to herself, I'd accuse you of lying. Not about the actual name, she had a feeling that was being offered to her for the purpose of solace, for George's sake. The problem was that she knew he was lying about how he knew it. He'd told her about his capture, that he'd been beaten and mocked, and then knocked out before his uniform was stripped off. That meant he could never had heard the other German soldiers wishing the spy well. As she looked at the fresh flowers on the grave, it occurred to her who might have known the spy's real name, and why Matthew was so at odds with his mother. Stop it, she told herself, this is about helping Matthew. "You probably should," she agreed, hoping her voice didn't reflect her inner rage. "With a name like Von Rostenburg, perhaps his family will be happy to discover that their son had a child." She laughed, despite herself. "Wouldn't that be ironic? Little George disinherited here but perhaps the heir to a German title?"

For a wonder, Matthew did smile. "I admit, that idea does amuse me." He stepped away from the grave site, and she took up position beside him as they walked through the graveyard. "I am sorry about that, that your son is… not to be the Earl of Grantham. As much as I consider it to be thankless job, I know it must be disappointing. I've told Robert, I have no intention of altering any living arrangements for you and George. He may not be my son, but he is my family and he will have every opportunity the estate can provide. I don't want you to worry about that."

"I wasn't worried about that," Mary reassured, "because you're not that sort of man, but I appreciate you saying so." She walked with him silently for a few moments and then broached her next concern. "What about your living arrangements? Are you comfortable staying at Crawley House?"

"No." He walked with her clearly struggling to put it into words. "Right now, I think it's too… awkward between Mother and I for either of us to be comfortable at Crawley House. But, it's equally awkward for me to take your father up on his generous offer to stay at the abbey."

"Because of me," Mary added for him. "It wouldn't bother me at all, Matthew. You know it's a large home. Frankly you could take an entire wing and we'd still never see you." She kept her tone light. There were bigger reasons to object. Namely, it would increase all sorts of talk.

He shook his head. "It would encourage talk about you, and it hasn't escaped me that some people are unkind about the situation. It would also encourage talk that there is something wrong between my mother and I, if I leave her house and place myself under the protection of Lord Grantham, the family patriarch."

Mary bit her tongue again. "I suppose staying at the village inn is out?" She knew it was even as he shook his head. Matthew taking a room at the inn would not only get the villagers talking about what terrible thing was driving him from his mother's home, they would also start questioning what rift existed between Matthew and the Earl.

"That's terrible on many levels…" Matthew seemed to carefully consider what he was going to say. "It would increase the rumors greatly, and I don't think I am shocking you with that revelation. But it would also simply be awful. I…" He stopped in his tracks and faced her. "I don't like confessing this but all things considered it's not the worst trouble a man could have."

What awful thing are you about to say, she mused. Because really, how bad could it be? Still, she braced herself. "What trouble is that?"

"People… upset me." He struggled to put it into words, she could tell. "I don't mean you, right now. I don't really know how to describe it except that I spent so much time alone, in the desert and the veldt… Now that I am here, in English civilization… I'm never alone from the moment I wake up until I go to bed and then I am in a house with servants and other people… An inn, with people going back and forth would be an utter nightmare. I wake up at every sound. Mother gets milk delivered daily and the milkman drops it off at 4:30 in the morning and the cook takes it in at 5:15. I'm barely allowed a moment alone and I can barely sleep and I feel like an ungrateful monster for wanting to hide myself away and just have a few hours of quiet. And I feel foolish for managing to find everything that I previously wished for so dreadful now that I have it." He looked away. "I'm considering leaving. My father owned a small hunting cabin in Scotland. I thought about going there for a while, just so I can get used to being among people who aren't actively trying to kill me or hunt me down."

That won't do, Mary thought quickly. Everything about how he looked told her that he was exhausted and needed to not feel the overwhelming pressure of everyone's attention. She never would have called him a solitary soul before, but he was a man who enjoyed solitary pursuits. And he had lived quite alone and isolated in Africa, with no one to trust and no one to talk to. An idea formed in her head. "Don't feel foolish," she chided him. "You were isolated and alone, with no one to talk to or trust for a very long time. So many of the men who came back from the war had troubles, you're not unusual or wrong for feeling out of sorts and you've had… a great many unpleasant shocks thrown at you. I think you're right, that you do need to have some privacy and some time to process all of this. I have a suggestion that doesn't involve going to Scotland, and would only create a small amount of talk."

He smiled. "Then pray tell what is this suggestion?"

"You know I help manage the estate now?" She waited for him to nod agreement. "Well, I have a small problem. The old gamekeeper retired, and the new gamekeeper has a family and lives in a cottage that is much closer to the village than old Mr. Mott's cottage. It's a perfectly nice cottage, it even has running water. There's several rooms and a kitchen and it's a quarter mile away from the nearest neighbors, which is why it's a problem. No one wants to be so far out from the village." The nearest neighbors were conventionally John and Anna Bates, and she knew they wouldn't mind keeping an eye on him. "You could have some much needed privacy and quiet, but you'd still be within a reasonable distance so you could attend dinner occasionally or see your mother. You wouldn't create hardly any talk. It's perfectly normal for a man your age to not live with his mother. And because of the awkwardness, it would seem perfectly normal for Papa to offer you a home but not move you into the main house. The only trouble is that there's no electricity. Would oil lamps trouble you?"

A genuine smile crossed his face. "Mary, I've literally slept on the hard ground in filthy clothes since 1914." He considered the idea. "I would like my own space, someplace quiet. And Sir Richard suggested I write a book about… well, about all that's happened…"

A book, Mary thought darkly, that Sir Richard will no doubt profit greatly from. "Then let's walk out to the gamekeeper's cottage and see what would need to be done to make it livable." She took his hand and smiled. "All things considered, it sounds like the new tenant isn't likely to be fussy." This has to work, she thought as they began to walk down the road. I won't have him go to Scotland. And at some point, I will need to corner my ex mother in law and find out what she knows. Because Isobel Crawley definitely had a secret.


	9. Chapter 9

Mary looked around the small cottage and felt a wave of relief. Matthew had been pleased when he had looked it over, pleased and relieved. She was relieved as well. It meant Matthew was going to stay, in close proximity, instead of scurrying off to some dismal Scottish village. "This won't need much more work, I think."

Anna looked up from the bookshelves she was dusting. "I agree, Lady Mary. Mr. Mott always kept this place as neat as a pin." She gestured to the small kitchen area. "I do wonder, does Mr. Matthew plan to cook for himself?" The younger woman smiled. "I just can't imagine… and yet John does seem to feed himself on those rare occasions we don't dine together."

"Mr. Matthew is, I suspect, at least as resourceful as Mr. Bates," Mary offered, although she did wonder how he would manage. "I'll need to check in on him," she decided, as she looked over the various kitchen items. "He can't know much about decent cooking, what he describes in those stories is usually cooking wild game or eating exotic fruit he'd found… And of course, he'll likely turn up at the Abbey for hot meals on occasion. Or at his mother's."

Anna nodded but her expression suggested that she knew something, that she wanted to say something. Mary waited patiently. Anna wasn't a gossip but she did pay attention to the other servants, and Mary knew from years of knowing her that if there was a concern among the servants, Anna would eventually raise it to her. After a long moment, Anna began to speak. "Milady, there's been some talk, about Mr. Matthew and his mother."

"I'm not surprised," Mary encouraged. She gestured around the cottage's large, rather lodge like living area. "We're readying this cottage for Matthew because he's finding living at Crawley House to be difficult. Papa says he's forgiven us all, and I do believe that, but he hasn't forgiven his mother. He hasn't told me why." She looked at Anna worriedly. "I don't want to press him. The truth is that I have my own reasons to be angry with Isobel Crawley, and he knows that and my demanding answers would just… push him away. I don't want that."

Anna nodded agreement. "I know, Lady Mary. I think, for both their sakes, that Mr. Matthew moving here is wise. Emma, Mrs. Crawley's maid, says they're very quiet and tense with each other. They barely speak. And they're… very discreet. Whenever the talk turns to the unpleasantness, they both glare at each other and Mrs. Crawley tells her to go home for the day." She hesitated. "Mrs. Crawley is apparently very upset that he's moving here."

"She has no reason to be upset," Mary snapped, her anger engaged and directed at a fair target. "He's having the trouble with noise, the trouble that M… my German spy husband had." My German spy husband who wasn't Matthew, she reminded herself as Anna looked away to let her recover. "That trouble goes away if you let the recovering soldier have some time and some peace and quiet, and we must all remember that for Matthew, the war didn't end in 1918, it ended a few months ago. He's also troubled by large groups of people, and by the constant attention he receives. This move isn't happening because he's delighting in spiting his mother. If he wanted to do that, he would have accepted my father's offer of a set of rooms in the Abbey. And if he really wanted to spite her, he'd tell whatever terrible explanation she's given to him over this mess. Instead, he's protecting her and I don't know why."

Anna hesitated just a moment and then hugged her. "She's his mother, Lady Mary. And he's honorable enough that you know he wouldn't protect her unless it was something he could forgive."

She accepted Anna's hug but then broke away. "He may forgive her eventually, I accept that. He has a kind heart, and he doesn't like being angry," and that reminded her all too much of her husband, "but I am angry, Anna. I don't… I don't regret George, and I don't regret giving myself to a man that did love me, but if I made a mistake in identifying the spy as Matthew, it's a mistake Isobel could have addressed."

"There's no missing the scar?" Anna asked gently. "I wondered, we all did."

Mary shook her head. "It's as big as my hand, Anna. If any of us had seen it, this all would have happened differently." She stopped herself almost as soon as she spoke. "I know nothing good comes from dwelling on this."

Anna nodded but also seemed to consider the problem carefully. "Maybe this isn't something you all can ignore. I understand why Mr. Matthew might not want to speak out of turn again his mother, but you are an injured party here. You have the right to ask her why she ignored the obvious."

There was good sense in Anna's words, she knew that, but she also felt that whatever it was, Matthew needed time to consider it before it was given to the family to consider. "Sometimes the boil needs to be lanced, I agree, but sometimes giving it some time to heal helps as well. I don't plan to let it fester long but I promised myself I wasn't going to force Matthew into revealing his secrets. So, for now I must give it time." She gestured around the large living room. "What do we need to bring to make this place livable for Matthew?"

"Linens and blankets," Anna said quickly. "He complains about being cold all of the time so we'll bring more blankets than anyone one person needs and let him make his own bed as he likes. Towels, and washcloths for the bathroom. I imagine he has his own shaving kit and such. The kitchen has plenty of plates and pots and pans but he might like something a little fancier than what Mr. Mott was using."

"If he does, then he'll likely prefer picking it out himself, and I suspect some of his discomfort is that… his life was very different, and very difficult." Mary looked around the room, with the large stone fireplace that Matthew had been so pleased to see, the simple but comfortable armchair and sofa, the small desk by the window that he planned to write at, and the thick pile rug in front of the fireplace that was worn but that he professed to adore. "I wonder if some of his shock and upset is over how he's spent so very much time living rough with nothing, only to be thrust back into our world. Perhaps he needs some time to… I don't know… To stop being a prisoner, or an outlaw running for his life, before he resumes his life as one of us." Some peace and quiet would, Mary thought with real pleasure, do Matthew a world of good.

0o0o0o0

As soon as she opened the door, Isobel knew why Sir Richard Carlisle was standing on her doorstop, and it wasn't to visit with Matthew, but she decided to let him set the pace. "Sir Richard," she said as she allowed him into the sitting room, "I don't think Matthew was expecting you. He's out right now. He went to Ripon to do a little bit of shopping for himself."

For his new home, and if she wasn't pleased about that, she was at least pleased he was staying close by. She had worried that he'd gotten the idea to scurry off to some distant place rather than deal with the life he'd been handed. He had seemed cheered at the idea of buying some new furnishings and had been pleasant in raising the topic, citing how he wanted privacy and his own space, rather than twist the knife further over their rift. "What brings you to Downton Village?"

He took a seat on the small sofa. "A bit of this and that. My wife feels the air in London isn't good for her health or our little son's health, so I thought spring and summer at my estate would suit her. I'll be back and forth to London, of course, but Clare will enjoy the fresh air and country side, I'm sure. I did want to check on Matthew as well. I'm glad to hear he's spending some of the money he's earned from those articles. Do you expect him back soon?"

"No," Isobel said pleasantly, but she tensed. Sir Richard wasn't subtle, and he wasn't a man for chit chat. "He was planning to be out all day."

"And I saw your maid leave, which means we're alone here, am I correct?" He smiled genially but Isobel could see a certain shark like amusement cross his face.

"Yes. Were you planning something nefarious?" she asked.

Sir Richard chuckled. "Not at all. In fact, you'll be pleased to know that Matthew has been a good influence upon me. As he has done me a good turn by writing delightful articles for me that sell papers, I thought I would do him a good turn as well, with you receiving the favor as a sort of side effect." He eyed her carefully. "You do understand why I am here?"

She nodded. "You're a newsman. I imagine you found something out that you want to share. Something that if one looks hard enough isn't really that difficult to discover." She waited a long moment. "What do you intend to do with that information?"

Sir Richard held up his hand. "That depends. Does Matthew know? About his brother? His identical twin brother that was stolen from you hours after the birth?" Richard leaned back against the sofa. "I assume, by the way, that Matthew never knew he had a twin brother. He's a bit ingenuous with his views. Very honest and forthright, and nothing about his description of being captured ever indicated he knew the spy was his twin brother."

"He didn't know," Isobel agreed, wondering when the knife would be revealed. "I've since told him. The first night he was back. I didn't want to let it fester."

"Does the family know?" His eyes narrowed. "I'm asking for a reason."

"No. I haven't found a way to discuss it, and Matthew worries that the authorities might charge me with assisting the enemy." A ridiculous notion, but she didn't force the point since it gave her hope. She didn't deserve his forgiveness, she accepted that, but she did know her son and she knew he would forgive her. That he worried about her having legal trouble or trouble with the family was the indicator that his heart hadn't hardened by the years of torment from the war and his imprisonment. Underneath his anger, he was still a kind hearted man. "I assume you're planning some sort of revealing article."

"Yes, but do remember, I said I was going to do Matthew a good turn." He leaned forward. "The story is mostly already written but it won't be released by my paper until one of two things happen. First, either you or Matthew will need to reveal this to family. Until that happens, I will keep this story a secret. I told Matthew, and I will tell you, I'm not a particularly kind person. I'll be honest, this would give me a very good boost in paper sales but when I compare that to the steady increase I've gotten from Matthew's continued stories, I come out ahead if he's granted some time to put things in order himself. I want him to write a book about his experiences, I want to publish it because it will be a best seller, and I have no need to twist this particular knife as it doesn't profit me at all to make your son miserable with a surprise reveal."

"That's very mercenary of you." She said it without thinking of the consequences.

"That's very amusing when it comes from the woman who allowed her son's twin brother to assume his station and life," Richard shot back easily. "I happen to like your son. You, I always found bossy and irritating when you weren't being smugly self righteous. Be glad that I find myself considering Matthew as something of a sweet, innocent little brother who needs protecting. Because I otherwise have no reason to not run this story. God knows I have no affection remaining for any other member of the Crawley family."

Isobel nodded. That was Matthew's gift, his magic charm, as Reginald had called it. He was a man that no one could dislike. Marcus had the gift as well although it colored his life differently. Matthew had somehow turned Sir Richard Carlisle into an ally, even after the dreadful fistfight and Mary throwing Sir Richard over for Matthew. No, she reminded herself, it was Marcus who Sir Richard didn't like and even then, it was mostly Mary that had caused that. "What is your second condition?"

"It's not a condition," Richard said quickly. "This will come out, Mrs. Crawley. I might have had more interest than most, but if it's not a newspaper, it will be the authorities who come knocking with questions about your time in Africa. Trust me, once it's well known that Baron Von Rostenberg was a swarthy dark haired man, people will start questioning whether his son was really just his son. I won't be the first to publish this story… But I do want your exclusive story."

She could see the profit in that for him. "What if I say no?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "You won't. But I don't mind spelling it out. If you say no, I will do nothing now. As I said, I rather like Matthew now that we're not competing for a lady's affection, and I am conscious of how the Crawley family would assume malicious intent on my part if I did release the story. When the story comes to light, and it will, I will release the story I have already written. I can't ignore a sensation after all… But if I have your exclusive story, I suspect I could present it to the public in a very sympathetic way. A sympathetic way means you're the victimized mother whose child was stolen only to find him in the war, and then lose both sons. It will nicely avoid the reality that you were aiding the enemy in the time of war." He waited a long moment. "I'm offering this because I think Matthew has suffered enough, and seems the sort that would blame himself if the public took against you. Do you agree to grant me your exclusive story?"

"Yes." Isobel couldn't deny his logic. Eventually it would come out. The very fact that she had newspaper clipping of the mess meant that there was a record of Marcus's kidnapping. "I appreciate your kindness towards Matthew."

"Then let me suggest another act of kindness," Sir Richard said as he rose to his feet. "Find a way to tell your family before it comes out. They won't thank you for being surprised with it."

She supposed that he had a point in that.


	10. Chapter 10

It felt, Matthew realized suddenly, almost like a miracle, how pleasant he felt. Sleeping well was the start, once he had moved into the gamekeeper's cottage, it had been a genuine treat to sleep through the night without waking every time someone on the street went by. He would never have believed that Downton Village had such a vibrant night life until every hoof clatter or street argument woke him.

It was also a treat to eat a meal without someone or everyone staring at his every move, or having to eat in stony silence rather than address the ugliness of the last few years. He stirred the stew he was making and sampled it. Cooking for himself had never been a chore, and the kitchen in the cottage was more than adequate. He suspected old Mr. Mott had been something of a connoisseur of food. There were any number of cooking tools that he wouldn't have expected to find in a gamekeeper's cottage and the garden behind the house was full of exotic herbal plantings.

His ears pricked up at the sound of a car approaching, but for a wonder, it didn't make him jump. I've been here for eight days, he reminded himself, and I haven't gone into the village or to the Abbey, so either Mother or Mary has sent someone to check on me, despite my intentionally walking over to the Bates home and saying hello to Anna yesterday. He looked out the window and wasn't surprised to see Tom the ex-chauffeur getting out of the car, and unloading a box of supplies.

Matthew opened the cottage door just as Tom was getting ready to knock. "Hello, Mr. Branson. Let me guess, Lady Mary was concerned that I might not," and he peered into the box Tom held, "be eating enough meat pies? Or was it my mother?" He smiled, to put the younger man at ease. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sybil's widowed husband held an awkward place in the family and he had no intention of making it worse. He barely remembered the fellow beyond the incident where Sybil had tricked him into taking her to a political rally but the chap seemed reasonably bright and more importantly, seemed to know when to keep his mouth shut.

The Irishman smiled brightly. "It was both, actually, although they each wanted to be very clear that they were sure you were fine and were more than capable of taking care of yourself but since I was planning to check the rabbit warrens today and would be by…" As Tom spoke, the rain that had threatening all morning began pouring down.

"Then come inside," Matthew said as he pulled Tom into the cottage, "and join me for lunch. You can take back tales of how well I seem and spend the afternoon with me as I walked out to the rabbit warrens yesterday and can assure you that the estate is well stocked."

"I accept your offer," Tom agreed, grinning with amusement. "I was fairly certain the warrens were doing well anyway and this cottage smells delightful. What are we having?"

"Lamb stew and fresh dill bread, although I must admit that I did not bake the bread myself. Apparently, Mr. Mott had a lovely arrangement with one of the village women to bring him bread and milk every few days in exchange for a few pence for delivery, so I am quite well supplied." He was certain Tom had been directed to check on the food situation so it pleased him to thwart the concerns of Mary and his mother.

Tom chuckled. "They worry. For what it's worth, I pointed out that you managed to keep yourself fed in the wilds of Africa but was told to keep my mouth shut, that England is very different." He set the box down. "There's meat pies, some rashers of bacon, eggs, butter, and a vast assortment of biscuits. Those are from Mrs. Crawley. Lady Mary had Mrs. Patmore fill the box with 'what a man likes to eat'."

Matthew began emptying the box into the larder. "That explains the slab of roast venison, but…" He held up a bottle of beer and spotted several more, including a bottle of whisky. "I had no idea Mrs. Patmore had such an idea of what men liked."

Tom grinned. "The whisky is from Lord Grantham, a house warming gift he called it, and I stopped at the pub because while Lady Mary said you were finding noise to be troublesome and might not enjoy the pub itself, most men enjoy a pint or two on occasion." Tom pointed to the windows where the rain was coming down with abandon. "Perhaps, with lamb stew ready and a box full of everything that men like to eat, and some spirits as well, we could spend the afternoon getting to know each other since… It occurs to me that we spoke maybe twice before you went missing and a lot has happened since."

It was an honest and open offer, Matthew thought. Tom was right, he didn't know the man well at all, but Mary oddly seemed to appreciate the Irish fellow in a way that surprised him. The whole family did, really, and since the man and Sybil's daughter lived at Downton Abbey as family, it made good sense to get a better feel for the man. "Why not? Perhaps we could even play cards."

0o0o0o0

Tom didn't feel bad in the slightest about getting Matthew drunk. It wasn't his plan, at least on the surface. He really had intended to just get to know the man a little better. That Matthew was the sort who relaxed on a convivial way when drinking was a bit of a surprise, but Tom allowed that it wasn't fair to expect any sort of behavior. The spy had always been pleasant and friendly but always was careful to not drink beyond a certain point.

Matthew in contrast had seemed determined to enjoy having a rainy day of card playing and drinking. Tom had a feeling the man hadn't really relaxed since arriving back in England. "Tom," he said brightly as he dealt another hand, "do you mind if I ask you some questions about things that have happened while I was away?" He smiled pleasantly but Tom did sense a serious edge entering his voice.

"I don't mind," Tom agreed, "but I will state at the start, I might not be the person to ask. You and I had all of what, one conversation before you went missing? I was just the chauffeur."

Matthew leaned back in his chair and nodded. "Yes. And that might be better, all things considered. I know you've read the stories I've written for Sir Richard's paper. You know I've hardly worked in a respectable job. Do you know something I learned as a prisoner? It's that people who they're above you, that think you can have no impact upon them, often speak their minds like you're not there. Have you ever found that to be the case?"

Tom had to nod. "I have. Lord Grantham in particular is probably lucky that his chauffeur is discreet."

"And you live there…" Matthew's voice trailed off as he seemed to consider his next words. "This question isn't about the past, and you may not have an answer for me… Is Mary planning to confront my mother soon?"

Tom drank a swallow of beer and considered his answer. "Yes. She's holding back because she's concerned about you." He gestured to the rain spattered windows in the cottage. "I assure you, when I return to the Abbey this evening, I will be pulled into a room by her and interrogated intensely on your level of happiness and stress. And on how much you ate and whether you looked ill or too thin." Mary will be pleased on most accounts, he realized. Matthew looked better, there was no other way to describe it. A few days of quiet, not being on display, seemed to have done wonders. Some of that was the noise problem, a kind euphemism that so many people used for the men who had come back from the way with nerves that were far too easily jarred by loud noises. Tom had no doubt at all that Isobel hadn't been happy with Matthew's decision but didn't protest more about it simply because it was obvious that Matthew needed some relief. The calm fellow who didn't flinch when the threatening skies rumbled or when the wind banged a tree branch against the window was much different than the chap who had twitched every time a fork hit a plate too hard at his welcome home dinner. "It might not be my place to say, but you seem less worried. If nothing else, having your home here seems to suit you."

"It does suit me," Matthew agreed genially. "Though I must admit, part of what suits me is being alone with my own thoughts without having to worry if anyone is upset or guilty or feeling awkward that I have reappeared in their life like… like a rather inconvenient specter." He waited a long moment. "You can be honest, it's a bit more relaxed with my not popping in daily, isn't it?"

How to answer that, Tom wondered. "Yes. I think… that everyone has been waiting to see what you will do. And if you'll be well, or if you'll go mad from the circumstances." He had fewer concerns than most in that regard. From what he had seen, Matthew had taken numerous harsh blows with a certain strength Tom wouldn't have expected.

Matthew smiled slightly as he picked up his own drink. "I won't deny that I considered the sweet bliss of insanity for a brief moment, but there's numerous downsides to that plan." His eyes darkened slightly despite his light tone. "I don't find the idea of being locked up against my will especially enticing. But I am beginning to see the appeal in staying in the same place for longer than a few hours." He gestured to the bookshelf that already held a few books. "I've found myself saying something similar to this quite a bit recently so bear with me… but this is the first time in over six years where I have owned more things than I can carry, and I can go to sleep at night without finding it all stolen. This last seven days is the first seven days I've slept in the same bed for seven days in years. It's… good to be able to think about that without also having to worry about everyone's feelings on the matter. Which is quite selfish of me, I know but frankly, when I weigh that with the reality that everyone who is concerned didn't notice I was gone to begin with, I think I'm allowed a little bit of selfishness."

There was a bitter undercurrent there, but Tom knew better than to chide him for it. It wasn't unreasonable. "I admit, I admire your forgiveness towards the family." He hesitated but pressed on, his own curiosity getting the better of him. "The similarities are eerie, you know. It's like you had a twin brother…"

For an instant, Tom was certain Matthew's eyes flashed with genuine worry. Then the slightly older man leaned back in his chair and took a long drink. "That," Matthew said carefully, "would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"It would." The idea more than warmed in his head, Tom felt suddenly on fire with his thoughts. He was careful to maintain the casual approach he'd already taken. "I can't speak to mannerisms but physically the two of you are identical. Mary has the picture you'd had taken when the war started and she compared it to pictures she had of the spy… There was no way to tell the two of you apart."

Matthew nodded and sighed, his expression suddenly stricken. "I've been told that, yes."

In that instant, Tom saw under the façade Matthew Crawley was presenting to the world. Despite his many reassurances, Matthew was deeply hurt by the idea that no one had noticed he was gone, that an imposter had taken his place. Even if the fellow had the luck of an identical appearance, Tom himself found the correct Matthew Crawley to be different from the man he had known. More thoughtful, more serious, more prone to cynical thoughts, some of that was due to the experience he had gone through, but as Tom considered it, it more closely matched the serious seeming young fellow who occasionally attended dinners at the abbey. Not the kind, often witty fellow who had embraced him as a brother. This version of Matthew was warming up to him, he could tell, it was possible that they could be warm friends, but his gut told him that it would take longer… and that it would have always taken longer. Because Matthew was different from the man who had impersonated him for so long.

Tom was glad to be able to offer some small solace. "Sybil wondered. About you, about when we returned from Ireland, that you seemed different to her. She couldn't put her finger on it, but…" The memory struck him like a blow.

 _Sybil was curled up next to him. It was one of his favorite places to be, lying in bed with his wife, holding her under the covers, letting her almost nest up him as he cradled her and the growing baby. But she was fidgeting, which worried him. "Sybil dearest, what's wrong?"_

 _Her eyes fluttered and opened. "You'll think I'm silly."_

" _I'd never do that, not if it's something that worries you. What is it?" He found himself curious indeed._

" _I can't even put it to words, not really. But… Matthew is different." She pulled herself up on one arm to look at him. "Not in a bad way. But that pleasant fellow who adores Mary and indulges her and Papa with their grand plans for the estate… That's not the man who agreed with me that the peerage was doomed to collapse under its own dead weight and silly views about earning money."_

" _Sybil, people change." He tried to put it into words that were gentle but also honest. "Yes, I know you remember Matthew, when he first came to Downton, being more of a firebrand about the future. But there has been a long, terrible war since then…"_

" _You always blame the war," Sybil muttered._

" _It's not just the war," Tom countered. "It's being older and understanding the reality of his position. He will be the Earl. He can't run away from it, and if he shirks his duty, it won't just be the peerage that looks down on him. He has to make the best of it, so why not make the estate run well, if he has to run it or else?"_

" _It's not just that," Sybil protested. "It's like he's a changeling or a doppelganger. He looks exactly the same as he should but something is different and I can't put my finger on it. It's like those silly stories I read as a child where a girl would find out she really had an identical twin and would switch places… Only that was for fun and I don't understand what could be going on here."_

 _Tom pulled her close. "I don't think you're being silly," he said softly. "I think the time for the baby to come is close and you are seeing shadows that aren't there because you're worried about the baby and that makes you worry about the family. Don't worry so much, dearest."_

"She thought you were replaced by a doppelganger… and I talked her out of it." Tom looked away from Matthew's suddenly piercing blue eyes. "I suppose that might not be what you wanted to hear."

Matthew seemed to shake it off. He smiled, a genuine smile. "Frankly, Tom, that's exactly what I needed to hear. Someone noticed despite it all." He held up his bottle of beer and clicked it with Tom's. "Let's toast her. To Sybil, the cleverest of the Crawley girls, the one person who looked past my imposter's good looks and well schooled mannerism to wonder if it was all a lie." He gave Tom a friendly look. "Come now, you have to toast your wife."

Tom returned the clink of bottles and drank, but found himself wondering what Matthew meant by well schooled mannerisms. Then he remembered Mary's suspicions, suspicions he shared despite his efforts to shy her away from the topic. Mary thought Isobel had helped the spy, at the very least had ignored things that should have been red flags. Tom had wondered as well, but could never see any sense in it, beyond saving the life of a crippled man who was likely to die in the war prisoners hospital. That was what made no sense, once the war ended, if it was Isobel simply having pity for an injured man who looked like her son, there was no reason to maintain the farce. It only hurt people, people he knew Isobel Crawley cared about.

Unless, he considered as Matthew dealt him another hand of cards, that crippled man who so eerily resembled Matthew was more to Isobel than just a crippled enemy soldier. Changelings were fairy tales, but identical twins happened. No one doubted that Isobel was a kind woman, that she would do something to save a man's life even if he was the enemy. But not at Matthew's expense. That was the thing that made everyone wonder, not just him. Isobel was nothing but a devoted mother. She had to have helped the spy, it was obvious that Matthew felt betrayed, but Tom couldn't see any scenario where Isobel would betray her own son to save a stranger's life.

That led to an obvious conclusion, Tom realized. He took a long drink to numb himself from the truth he was considering. The man Isobel Crawley had helped had to be her son. He couldn't begin to think how such a thing could happen but it must have, and it explained so much, including the odd tense behavior between Matthew and Isobel, and the thing that infuriated Mary so, that Matthew was protecting his mother from something despite the pain she had caused him.

"What is it?" Matthew asked suddenly. "Your cards can't be that bad, and we're only betting for biscuits. I assure you, Mother will make more if I ask." He chuckled darkly.

"No," Tom assured. "I suppose I was just thinking how I was glad I didn't have your troubles."


	11. Chapter 11

Mary waited just a few moments before she excused herself from the dinner table to follow Tom up to his room. He had returned to the Abbey just before dinner and been surprisingly noncommittal. Cheerful enough, he'd made a point of describing Matthew as being in good health and pleasant but didn't go into details of what he'd discovered while spending the afternoon in Matthew's company. Those were the things Mary wanted to know. She knew her suggestion was working, that Matthew was better just by having some time to himself. Anna had reassured her that very morning that Matthew had walked to her home with Bates to say hello and had cheerfully offered to help Bates with chopping wood. Whatever else was happening, she was certain Matthew was in relative good health. Which made Tom's oddly hesitant and quiet behavior concerning because it meant something was bothering him.

She knocked on his bedroom door and then opened it, finding him sitting on his bed, looking at photographs. He seemed to brace himself as she stepped into the room and closed the door. "I don't recall offering permission to enter."

"I didn't ask," Mary retorted, reminded again, not for the first time, how Tom had, in the last few years, crossed the boundary from interloper to family. He was like a younger brother, to tease and taunt but only so far. "What has you so bothered? You said Matthew was well."

"He is well," Tom reassured. He gestured for her to take a seat. "He's… thriving. I think you were completely right, he really needed some peace and quiet. He even looks like he's gained some weight and he was quite amused by the box of food. He was also quite amused to talk me out of tending my chores to play cards and drink with him." Tom smiled. "For a gentleman, he's quite good at cards."

"Then what's wrong? What did he say that bothered you? Because something is bothering you." Tom was an easy read in that respect. She wondered suddenly if little Sybbie would share that with him or if she would have the Crawley wiliness.

Tom smiled slightly. "There are two things bothering me, Mary. The first is a confession I have to make to you, and the second… is a suspicion that I don't know how you'll take. Where shall I start?"

Mary sat straight up. "With the confession. Get it over and done, you're making yourself miserable." Unless he was admitting to conspiring with her German spy husband to trick her, there wasn't anything he could have done that couldn't be forgiven.

"Sybil… suspected something. About Matthew." Tom looked at her, obviously worried. "She told me, on two different occasions, that she thought Matthew was different, that he didn't remember things that he should, that his personality was different." He took a deep breath. "The first time was when he asked me to be best man at your wedding. She said he didn't remember something that in retrospect, he really should have. The fight at the political rally, where Sybil got hurt… Sybil said he didn't remember it at all and he should have because it was the same night he asked you to marry him, the first time. I dismissed it because I thought he might have forgotten due to the injuries he had. The second time was right before the baby… I thought she was just worried about the baby and turning that worry onto the family."

Mary tried not to let her emotions show. "What did she say the second time?"

"That he was the same but different. That he looked like Matthew, but was different, that he didn't seem like the man she met in 1912." He hesitated. "She called your husband 'that pleasant fellow' and that the Matthew she knew would never have agreed to run the estate with your father. I confess, I talked her away from that, that it was her being silly due to the baby, that your husband wasn't a changeling." He sighed. "And here we are. Do you forgive me?"

"There's nothing for me to forgive." Mary ignored the echo in her mind as she spoke. "You weren't friends with Matthew before, you're not to blame for not imagining the unimaginable. Sybil always was the cleverest of the Crawley daughters. I imagine it might please Matthew to know one of us at least noticed something wasn't right. Did you tell him?"

"He insisted we toast her memory," Tom admitted. "He has a certain dry wit that I didn't expect. And… he's more… intense than I want to remember. Is that some of the difference Sybil was talking about?"

Mary nodded. "I feel like a fool often these days, Tom. Some of that intensity… that's from the war and Africa. But some of it isn't. I won't deny, I've gone over things over and over and there were things I should have seen and didn't. I didn't see those things because I didn't want to question how… how I was getting everything I wanted. I had Matthew, he was happy to take on his role as heir, we were happy and I didn't want to question that after waiting so long." She shook it off. There were plenty of reasons to blame herself, that another one was added, that Sybil had seen what she had closed her eyes to, was just another sadness to contemplate. "What is your suspicion?"

Tom gestured to the photos he had been looking at. "I think I know what Isobel was thinking when she ignored the fact that her son was missing an identifying scar. And I think I know why Matthew is protecting her despite the harm it caused."

"Then share your thoughts, please," Mary insisted. "Because for the life of me, I can't figure out what she was thinking at all."

"She was protecting her son." Tom said it as though it was plainly obvious.

"She was not. She lied to save a German prisoner from being sent to a terrible war hospital, she wasn't protecting Matthew at all." Although as Tom held up two photos, one of Matthew in 1913 and one of her husband at their wedding, she understood what Tom was suggesting. "Tom, Matthew didn't have a brother. I know, because of the entail. If Matthew had died in the war, the earldom would have ended with Papa. When Papa thought Matthew's injuries meant he wouldn't be able to have children, there was a discreet search made for an heir. Papa kept it very quiet, he didn't want to cause any upset or worry until he was certain." She remembered just then a conversation she had with Matthew, after the village flower show. "Matthew was an only child. He even told me, more than once, that he had always wanted brothers and sisters."

"I don't doubt that," Tom said easily. He gestured to the pictures. "Sybil called him a doppelganger. We both agree that Isobel would never betray Matthew for a stranger…"

Mary felt as though she was dropping through the air, even though she was sitting. "That man… my husband, was Matthew's twin brother. How could she have not told him such a thing?" Then she stood suddenly. "Get up. You're driving me to Crawley House. Cousin Isobel is going to explain herself."

0o0o0o0

Tom jumped to his feet. "Mary… I'm not taking you there. Not until we talk about this just a little bit more." He hadn't planned on having the talk with Mary that very night. He hadn't really internalized what he thought he knew, let alone made any sense of it. "To begin with, we don't know anything for certain."

"But you're right," Mary countered. "It's the only thing that makes any of this make sense." Tom started to protest and Mary held up her hand. "Let me finish, Tom. I won't lie and pretend that Isobel and I are warm friends, but I would never deny the obvious. Isobel is a devoted mother. If that man was not her son, if he was really just an amazingly similar man to Matthew, she would have told us. She would have argued herself blue at the idea of sending him to some wretched prison camp where he'd die from lack of care, but if he wasn't her son, she would have said something."

Tom gestured for her to sit down and after a moment she did. "Let's take it a bit further then. How did that man end up with a German name, in a German uniform? What… what tragedy could have led to that? To Isobel never telling her son that he had a brother?"

"You're trying to make me sympathize with her," Mary shook her finger at him. "I understand. If Matthew had a twin brother who was raised to be a German, then someone stole that baby away from Isobel and Reginald. That must have happened when Matthew was very young and they may have decided to not trouble him with the truth. That is awful, and I can't imagine anything worse than have a child stolen from you." She made a show of slapping her own forehead. "Oh wait, yes I can, Tom. I can imagine falling in love with a wonderful man, almost losing him, marrying him, having his child, burying him three days after that child was born, only to find out I married a German spy. Wait, not just a German spy but a German spy who just might be the twin brother of the man I love. None of this had to happen." Mary was shaking from rage, Tom could see that and he took her hand in his hand.

"Mary," he started gently, "I loved the man you married like he was my brother. I don't regret that. For whatever reason, he took Matthew's identity, and that was wrong… But he was the man who cried with me at Sybil's grave. He was the man who supported me when hardly anyone else in this family wanted to even speak to me, let alone be friendly."

"And has it occurred to that he might have had an ulterior motive in that?" Mary shot back. Tom was glad to be able to argue against that point.

"Yes, befriending the shabby Irish chauffeur that didn't know his place endeared him to your parents, didn't it? You were pleased, weren't you? That Matthew asked me to be his best man at your beautifully appointed wedding?" He didn't like going there, Mary was the sort that didn't like her past actions brought up, but at the same time he wanted her to see beyond her own feelings. "I know you were angry about it, don't like. Matthew told me."

"He wasn't Matthew," Mary hissed.

"For all intents and purposes, he was, at the time." Tom countered. "He was my friend and your husband, who you loved almost beyond reason. Yes, he lied to you. He also loved you. Have you considered what this means, if he was Matthew's brother?" As she glared at him, Tom despaired of breaking through to her. "Think about that, Mary. He was pretending to be Matthew but he had no reason to be anything but Cousin Matthew to you. He was going to marry Lavinia and truth be told, for all he was upset about her death, I think we were all surprised that the two of them were getting married. It was odd how he was about her."

"Poor Lavinia," Mary sniffed suddenly. "He didn't love her." She laughed bitterly. "Oh my lord, Tom, neither of them loved her as much as they loved me. The worst thing in knowing that is that I feel even worse for her now." After a moment, she seemed to calm down. "I don't mean to make light. He felt terrible about Lavinia, we both did." She was quiet for a long moment. "I won't go to Crawley House tonight, but this confrontation is coming, Tom. Because you're right, it's the only thing that makes sense." She pursed her lips angrily. "She should have told us when the war ended. Her missing son, injured from the war… if she thought Matthew had died, I understand why she maintained the lie until the war ended but afterwards… As much as it would have been painful and awkward, especially for Lavinia, we would have understood. Once the war ended, if this is true, what is the worst that would have happened? There's many people who would consider it a blessing, a lost child returned to the fold."

"You're such a fool sometimes, Mary," chimed a new voice. Tom and Mary both started as Edith stepped into the room.

"You were at the door listening to us? A sneak as always." Mary snapped. She started to rise but Tom gestured for her to stay seated as Edith strode into the room. Edith, Tom mused, had grown up in the last few years. She was holding some papers in her hand and while Tom suspected she had been listening to them, he also suspected she was there with a purpose.

She eyed Mary. "If Isobel revealed this unpleasant truth as the war ended, she would have been arrested. For aiding and abetting the enemy. Her son would have been thrown on a prisoner transport in his wheelchair and dumped back in Germany, where he would likely have been court martialed for his complete failure to spy effectively." Edith sniffed. "You know how Germans are, they would have held him up as an example of why the war failed for them. He would have been imprisoned and with his health precarious, the year or so that it would have taken Papa to argue for his only remaining heir to be allowed to return to England would have killed him. That's why Isobel wasn't fool enough to reveal this. That and I suspect she might have gotten enthralled in the fantasy, especially when her son regained the use of his legs months after it was clear her other son wasn't going to miraculously be released when the war ended." She held out the papers she had brought with her, and took a seat next to Tom. "I actually was planning to talk with the two of you tonight. I asked one of my reporters to look into who the German spy was, based on the name Matthew gave authorities, Von Rostenburg."

Mary was furious, Tom could see that, but he hoped she could keep it in check. "What did you find out?" he asked.

"Yes, what have you been up to?" Mary glared at Edith.

Edith, for her part, seemed unphased. "I was trying to salvage something for my nephew, Mary. My dear little nephew who no fault of his own went from being heir to an earldom to the son of an unknown enemy. If nothing else I thought your son might want to know who his father was. And as it happens, depending on whether Baron Josef Von Rostenburg is still alive, George may very well be titled in Germany. But due to other factors, that might be difficult to claim."

She held out some newspaper articles to both of them. "The Von Rostenburgs were childless until the Baroness unexpectedly gave birth to a premature son while on a trip to their lands in South Africa. At the same time, an English couple who were also childless and living in South Africa had twin sons and were visited with a vicious tragedy."

"The baby was stolen…" Mary said it breathlessly as she read the article. "His name was Marcus…" She daubed her eyes.

"I suspected something like this when the news came that Matthew was alive." Edith spoke carefully. She was, Tom realized, trying very hard to be gentle with Mary. "I was planning to talk with both of you so we could determine how to… well, I was concerned that Matthew might not know this but in listening to you two, and my own observations, Cousin Isobel must have told him. That explains why they've been so at odds with each other. How awful for Matthew. The horrible years away, only to find out his parents had an awful tragedy they kept from him. And if he speaks of it, he endangers his mother because she is very guilty of aiding the enemy."

"Come now," Tom said, feeling Edith was exaggerating. "She's an elderly woman who lost her son. Both of her sons."

Edith shook her head. "There are many embittered fathers and mothers of dead soldiers who wouldn't be sympathetic especially since her son is now alive again and wealthy."

"He wants to forgive her," Mary said quietly as she stared at the article clipping. "He wants to forgive her but it's a lot to forgive. That's why he's been so upset with her. He had a twin brother… and she lied to him his entire life. And he will forgive her. That's how Matthew is… I don't know how he forgave me for this… this utter betrayal…" She got up and went to the door before Tom could even react. Edith grabbed his arm as he started after her.

"Leave her alone," Edith warned. "She's had her share of bad shocks as well as Matthew. She won't go to Isobel's tonight. You'd already talked her out of that and I came in instead of leaving it alone to set her back on the path she's already chosen."

"What path is that?" Tom suspected it was something he missed completely.

Edith smiled slightly. "Sometimes I think none of you give me any credit for knowing my own sister. Mary is at her worst with me, no doubt because I broke the spell she had over Mama and Papa when I was born. She's at her best with Matthew. When Mary loves someone dearly, she would never do anything that inflicts pain on them, at least not intentionally. She won't go over to Isobel's home tonight and shriek her rage at the woman, even though Isobel deserves it and more, because Matthew loves his mother and is trying to forgive her. It would hurt Matthew if she let her anger loose upon his mother, and Mary would never hurt Matthew. If anything, she might dramatically sneak out in the middle of the night and go to Matthew's little cottage and beg his forgiveness."

It occurred to Tom that Edith was exactly right. "I am sorry, Edith," he said after a long moment. "For the longest time, I…"

"Thought I was the stupidest of the Crawley sisters?" Edith's smile, a thing rarely seen, gave her a surprisingly lovely look. "Everyone thinks that. I'll happily concede that Sybil was the brightest light, but no, I've never been the dumbest. But don't tell Mary that you know." They both laughed at the teasing joke and then Edith continued. "It's actually Mary that I was worried about. She's right about Matthew, he wants to forgive his mother and he will, because underneath his current anger lies his kind heart. But Mary… you and I both know that Mary loved her husband with sheer joy. Her husband that wasn't really Matthew. That it was his twin brother, and not just a German spy makes it both better and worse. I doubt that Matthew would be unkind to her… But I admit to being surprised that he forgave her as easily as he did over their failed engagement, and in retrospect, I think he loved Lavinia far more than his twin brother did."

Tom saw it in an instant. "She still loves Matthew. But she also loved her husband… I suppose we should call him Marcus. And, while I was just remarking how different Matthew is, they really weren't that different."

"It does surprise me how jovial and kind and similar to Matthew this Marcus really was," Edith agreed. "Considering he was raised by Germans and all. But at the end of the day, while Mary is still in love with Matthew, however confusing that might be, Matthew might not be in love with her and… I think that would break her." Edith reached over and took his hand. "Oh, Tom, I know it doesn't always seem it, but Mary is my sister and I love her, and I don't want this to get any worse."

"Well," Tom felt tired as he spoke. "I suppose the one consolation is that it really can't get any worse, can it?"


	12. Chapter 12

Mary took a deep breath and then opened the chest. It was early morning and she had spent most of the night debating her next steps. Finally, she had the idea of going through his things. After the accident, it had been her mother who had helped Anna with packing up her husband's things. You can't face it now, her mother had said as the chest was brought into the dressing room, but you don't really want his things thrown away. At the very least George will want to see his father's things.

She hadn't been able to protest, she had just cried and hugged a pillow to her face while lying on the bed while all the things that belonged to Matthew were rounded up and sorted. He had kept his clothes in the dressing room but there were various things that had invaded her room over the short course of their marriage that she couldn't look at without sobbing.

Matthew is alive, she reminded herself as she opened the chest, Matthew is alive and these aren't his things. This man may have loved you, but he also lied to you. Still, she had to blink rapidly to stop the tears from falling when she looked at the clothes and personal things he'd always used. His pocket watch, the cufflinks he wore that were barely serviceable but had been his father's… It struck her, as she picked one up, that she didn't really know the truth of it at all. Matthew wore these at that first dinner party, she remembered suddenly, and my husband wore them the day we were married. Some of the things in the chest were genuinely Matthew's and some were purely her husband's, her husband whose name she could barely bring herself to say. Stop it, she told herself as she moved some of the clothes and sniffed his scent still upon them, you're not here doing this merely to reminisce, you're looking for something that will help Matthew get past the horror of his mother replacing him with his twin brother.

She didn't know what she was looking for until she found it. It was a small leather bound journal. Mary picked it up and ran her hands down the well worn cover. It was something she had bought for him, on their honeymoon in Paris. Matthew was like his twin brother, Mary almost smiled at the thought, neither of them liked admitting to having nightmares about the war. She had bought the journal for him the day after he had awakened her with his shouts in his sleep. She was a half hearted nurse at best but she had paid attention to the lectures from the doctors when the Abbey had been a hospital. She remembered exactly what she had said to her husband when she gave him the journal. Sometimes it helps to write down the things you can't or won't say out loud. This is for you and just you, you never have to share what you've written here but writing down what terrifies you names the fear and once the fear is named, it becomes manageable. She had then promised that she would never read it until the day he handed it to her and told her she could.

He had accepted the gift with downcast eyes, she remembered how ashamed he had been at the very notion he wasn't strong enough to stop the nightmares of the war. But he wrote in it that very day, and every day after a bad night. The bad nights came less and less but it wasn't unusual for him to spend a few minutes in the evening writing, especially as the time for the baby drew near.

Mary held the small book to her chest. I kept my promise, she told herself. I never once looked in it, I never even held this book in my hands again until today. She closed her eyes and visualized his smiling face, his boyish grin as he looked at her. Know this, she prayed quietly, if I wasn't certain I knew your heart if not your name, I'd leave this alone. But I did know your heart, you were a good and kind man who would want your brother healed. You didn't hand this to me, but you've gone beyond the world where I can ask you for your help.

She opened the journal and began turning the pages. Her initial puzzlement turned to shock. It was his handwriting, the entries were dated neatly but… It was in German. As she flipped through the pages, she could see her name again and again but the passages were all in German. Despite the rising disappoint, she found herself chuckling at how ridiculous it was. How ridiculous, she mused as she closed the book, if I had even once opened this book, I would have been suspicious. Then the real truth almost shocked the breath out of her.

Her husband had loved her and trusted her so dearly, he never once doubted that she would never violate his privacy. That brought the grief fresh to the surface and for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to miss him.

0o0o0o0

The knock on the door made him jump but Matthew didn't chide himself for it. It was early morning. He was up because he had left the curtains undrawn the night before, he had found himself wanting to watch the full moon as clouds moved through the night sky. It wasn't early for the villagers that farmed but he was up earlier than normal and surprised that anyone was there.

More surprising, it was Mary at the door of his cottage, looking tired and unkempt. Like she hadn't slept and then had walked from the Abbey to his cottage during the chilly, early down hour. She was holding a satchel and looked not quite wild eyed but upset. "Mary, you must be cold," he said as he led her into the cottage. "I was just starting a pot of tea on the stove. Why are you here? Is something wrong? Is everyone all right?"

She stepped into the cottage, realizing for the first time, he could tell, that she might have spooked him in some way. "Nothing is wrong with anyone… I didn't realize how early it was. I just…" She visibly braced herself. "I know what you're hiding, what your mother did. Who my husband really was. He was your brother, your twin brother who was stolen from your mother just minutes after he was born."

At least, Matthew thought tiredly, however she found out, she got the accurate story. "I wasn't hiding it. Frankly, I…" He sat down at the small table in the kitchen. "I don't even know what to say. You must be so angry. Did Sir Richard tell you?"

Sir Richard had stopped by more than once, ostensibly to pick up new stories and to check on his book progress. There had been more than one hinted comment. He was surprised that Richard was not only waiting on publishing the story but also not demanding answers from him for what would likely be a stunning story.

She shook her head. "No… Sir Richard hasn't even been by to say hello to anyone. Tom and I were discussing the possibility when Edith showed us some old newspaper articles she had found at her friend Michael's newspaper. About… the baby being stolen." Mary sat down, setting her satchel on the table. "His name was Marcus."

"Yes." It burned again, the anger he felt. "I don't have any answers for you, Mary. I only saw him for a few moments, he didn't speak to me. I know you're angry with my mother and you have every right to be, but she's more likely to have some idea of what was going through his mind. I have no idea." Truth be told, he struggled with it. The idea of an identical version of himself, living his life, taking the things he truly wanted, it enraged him, especially seeing the way his whole family had been humiliated by the mess. At the same time, he could remember as a child how he always wanted a brother, and how when he locked eyes for that brief moment with the German soldier, he'd felt an odd freeze of shock, that he was looking at his other half. "I know his name was Marcus. I know he was stolen from my parents and that the woman who raised him insisted he be educated in England, but aside from that…" He sighed. "I'm not at a place where I can ask Mother questions because I… feel like that would be letting her win. That once I start asking questions about him, then I am accepting all of this and forgiving her and I am not ready yet."

He felt petty and childish, trying to explain that he needed more contrition than had been offered, especially since he was certain part of living in the gameskeeper's cottage that pleased him was knowing it was driving his mother crazy. Likewise, everyone else in the family. Guiltily, he admitted, "Sometimes, I have to admit, I take a certain petty pleasure in knowing how upset everyone is."

"Oh, thank god," Mary said, smiling despite it all. "You aren't the forgiving saint you've made yourself out to be, after all. I was beginning to worry your next step would be to enter the ministry." She looked him firmly in the eyes, her own dark eyes taking on an intent look. "This wasn't why I came but… Matthew, you are allowed to be angry and frustrated with us. As near as I can tell, the only one among us who deserves a second of your sympathy is Sybil. I certainly don't deserve your forgiveness."

Matthew shook his head. "I have forgiven you. If anything, knowing the man you married was my twin brother made it easier. I'm glad you know, and I am glad you found out in a way that didn't involve you beating my mother to death for the truth." He reached across the table and took her hand, holding it firmly. "You could not have known something that I never knew until my return here. If anything, this… revelation makes the whole business make more sense. I mean, I've seen the pictures."

"You said that, when we were at his grave." She pulled her hand away and began to open her satchel. "I didn't come here so early just to tell you that I knew. I have a similar problem to yours." She pulled a leather bound journal out of the satchel, and gave him another intent look. "You would like to know your brother but he's dead and gone. I have questions I would like to ask but the only person who really knew Marcus Crawley's heart was Marcus Crawley. I don't deny that I could go to your mother and shake some answers from her, but I also understand that she is a mother and she will no more speak ill of him than she would speak ill of you."

Matthew found himself nodding. "I admit, one reason I hesitate to ask is that I sense Mother would try to convince me of what a marvelous chap he was."

"He was." She said it so easily, so simply, he was taken back. She waited a moment before she spoke. "I married him, Matthew. Yes, I missed things that should have been obvious. You're much more serious, and that's not just the war and the time running for your life in the wilds of Africa. You could make me laugh and you always had a witty remark on hand, but you were always thinking about the future or your legal career, or how the villagers got on. My husband, in contrast, while much like you, was altogether much more of a jolly sort of fellow." She blushed suddenly. "He was a dreadful tease at times, but if he pushed too far, he was always quick to make up for it. He liked to surprise me with books to read. You both liked to read, especially history and literature, but your guilty pleasure were those dreadful books by Verne and Wells, and that American Jack London, and he adored that Christie woman's books and the Lord Whimsy mysteries. One time, in Scotland, I was asking him how some dreadful discussion with Papa and his lawyer had gone and he just… flopped on the bed like a little boy and said it was pretty bad…" Matthew had to admit, as irksome as it was to know she was smiling and struggling not to laugh over the memory of the imposter who had stolen his life, it was still good to see her smile. She covered her mirth after a moment. "I see George do the same thing and I know he's his father's son in that. I miss that. I miss him. As glorious as it is to see you and know you're alive, as much as I loved you and regretted that we didn't marry when you asked, I can't lie to you and say I wasn't happy in my marriage. One thing I promised myself, when I knew and accepted that you were alive, was that I would always be honest with you. He was different from you and I should have seen it and I didn't. But as much as I held his heart, I didn't know him as well as I thought."

"I won't lie to you," Matthew said carefully. "I can never be angry at the idea that you were happy. If he made you happy, he did, and that's partly my fault for letting our engagement go. But…"

"It's difficult to forgive a person you never knew." She thrust the journal across the table towards him.

He took it, feeling like she was handing him some sort of secret treasure. "What is this?"

"You want to forgive your brother. I want to forgive my husband. We need to know who he was." She tapped the cover gently. "I gave this to him after our wedding and I promised to never read it. It's his journal. I found it this morning rummaging through his things for the first time since he died. He kept this constantly and it wasn't until today that I looked into it."

Matthew felt a strange sort of kinship as he picked it up. "What did you find out?"

Mary smiled wryly. "Nothing. He wrote it in German. I never looked, so I never noticed such an odd thing." Her smile fell away. "To think if I had pried, that you might have been home that much sooner…"

"Stop," Matthew spoke gently. "You might have unleashed the secret sooner, I don't deny that, but I still would have been lost." It was one point he genuinely didn't have anger over. "It wouldn't have saved me any pain. Mother and he… made a point of checking the prisoner lists when the war ended. They assumed I was killed and if you had found this mess out two or three years ago, I still would have been lost in Africa." He picked up the journal. "You want me to read my twin brother's secret journal?"

It had its appeal, he couldn't deny that.

"I'm asking," Mary spoke carefully, "that you read it. I certainly won't force you but you want answers as much as I do." She sighed. "He was like you in his honesty and I can't believe he never wanted me to know the truth."

That tickled Matthew's memory, something his mother had said when they had argued. "Then let me see if I can answer that question immediately." He flipped to the end, marveling slightly at the even, similar handwriting. He had learned German at university and had ample reason to keep fresh with it. He scanned the last three entries, taking note of things he was certain he would come back to but Mary had come to him to do him a kindness and he could see that she was genuinely upset. It also hadn't escaped him that over the last few weeks, Mary had quietly anointed herself as his protector. She more than deserved her mind eased on at least one point. "Mother said something… his journal bears it out. He was planning to tell you. He was waiting for the baby to be born to tell you the truth."

The relief that flashed over her heartened him. After a moment she blinked it away, more than a little amusement coming to her voice. "Oh, the storm that would have made."

"Would you have forgiven him?" He asked it without thinking.

She responded in kind. "Yes. Of course. But I would have needed time." It seemed to roll over her like a wave of understanding. "I now realize why you haven't forgiven your mother and yet say you will. I am angry with him, oh I have been so angry with him, but I loved him and I will forgive him."

Matthew closed the book and stood. "Since I suspect we'll spend the day at this, perhaps I should put the kettle on. Shall I make you some breakfast, Lady Mary?"

She snickered. "That would at least be better than anything I made."


	13. Chapter 13

It was strange to watch him make breakfast over the small stove. Mary wasn't without some knowledge of cooking, as a child she had "helped" Carson and the different cooks make cakes and pies, so she knew the gist of kitchen work, if not the details. She had just never seen a man, a man that she knew like Matthew, fussing over a hot stove. More fascinating, as he brought over their plates and set down what appeared a lovely cheese omelet and sausage, it smelled and looked as tasty as something Mrs. Patmore would have made.

"Did you learn to cook in Africa?" she asked as he took a seat at the table. "Or was it the war?"

Matthew rolled his eyes with no small amount of amusement crossing his face. "You know, it's not always about my time in Africa. Or the war. For example, my mother taught me to cook, with my father's express approval. And when I whined as a little boy that cooking was for girls, not only did my father point out that chefs in restaurants were exclusively men, but that he wanted me to learn because he had spent far too many days and nights and school and university, miserable and hungry because he couldn't so much as fry an egg." He grinned. "If nothing else, I was always invited to the midnight feasts at school. And you'd be amazed at how grateful a man gets when you show him how to take their rations and turn them into something bearable to eat." He gestured to her plate. "Now eat up. You were up all night, I can tell, and walked out here at the crack of dawn. You must be hungry."

"I am," she admitted, and began to eat. The omelet was light and fluffy, and she was pleased to see that Matthew was eating as hungrily as she was. He looks better, she realized, feeling no small amount of pleasure at the notion. His face looked fuller, he didn't look tired or nervous, he looked like he was capable of enjoying himself, of being happy. The only thing that jarred the image of health was the slight limp as he took their empty plates to the sink and the wince he made coming back.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I have the right to ask, she reminded herself. We are family after all. "That limp seems to be getting worse. There may not be many options with an older injury but there's no reason for you to avoid any help at all. A lot of times, stretching the damaged muscles helps relieve the pain, if nothing else." And Matthew didn't need to know that she knew such things because of how his brother suffered from back pain and spent at least twenty minutes a day lying on the floor stretching his back.

Matthew smiled wryly. "Would it shock you to know my mother said something very similar?" He led her to the small sofa in the living area. "As it happens, I have seen a doctor, a specialist in Ripon that Dr. Clarkson recommend."

"You went to Ripon?" She didn't know why she found it so off putting, that he had done something in the last week that she wasn't aware of. He was a grown man, after all, and not her husband. Yes, he was family but if nothing else, his adventures away more than proved his ability to take care of himself. "I'm sorry," she conceded, "I don't mean to sound so shocked…"

"And yet you are," he retorted curtly, although she had the sense he was less angry and more annoyed. "I went to Ripon a few days ago on the train. Dr. Clarkson had gotten an appointment for me with Dr. Staunton, and frankly I needed to purchase a few things. In fact, there will be some deliveries to this cottage in the next few days so you might want to let Tom and your father know that nothing unusual is happening." Matthew shrugged. "Whatever else this unpleasantness has rendered me, I'm not poor. There's no need for me to live poorly."

Mary almost let him get away with changing the topic but didn't. "So, what did he say? Dr. Staunton?"

Matthew smiled slightly. "Much like you thought, he recommended some stretches. Quite a few actually, morning and evening, and he also recommended more walks and bicycling to strengthen my leg. The problem is that there was a break that has healed badly. The way to solve that problem is to have surgery, where the doctor rebreaks the leg and aligns it more properly, and then I would let it heal correctly instead of walking on it." Matthew hesitated. "It won't get dramatically worse if I do nothing."

"But it won't get better," Mary noted, "and it's likely to trouble you more as you get older."

"I hadn't realized how well versed you are on the topic" Matthew offered as he sat down next to her. "I am considering it. Dr. Staunton would do it now if I insisted, but he suggested that I wait until fall so that I could have the spring and summer to regain my health and to do the stretches and exercises so that I am better prepared for the surgery."

Mary nodded. "It sounds like this Dr. Staunton is a man of good sense." She began making plans to go to Ripon herself and speak to the man. "You already look much better, Matthew. Spending some time regaining your strength seems wise before such an undertaking." He'll be at the Abbey for his recovery, Mary decided. I will see to that. The image of Matthew alone, crutching about the small cottage was not going to happen.

"If I undertake it," he said easily. "The doctor does think there's some possibility that relief, and exercise will be a great help all on its own." He picked up the leather bound journal and held it closed in his hands. "I think we're both avoiding the task at hand. Where should I start with this? Is there anything I should not read?"

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

"He was your husband and this was his private journal." Matthew's tone was gentle. "This may shock you, Mary, but people who keep journals sometimes express their angry thoughts in writing rather than say them out loud."

I missed this, Mary realized, I missed having someone genuinely care about my feelings, someone who understood that I do have feelings. She didn't tell him though, because she sensed he wasn't ready to hear that it was a similarity to his brother. "This may shock you, I suspect, but I may have earned the occasional harsh thought from my husband. We rarely fought but there were arguments. And frankly, it's not as though I can argue with him now. There's no need to spare me."

"Then I will start at the beginning."

0o0o0o0

Matthew found himself blushing as he read aloud yet another ode to Mary's beauty and patience with his brother's many nightmares about the war. Still, he kept at it, breaking his word only when the descriptions of battle were too much. It didn't feel helpful to him, but he could see that it was pleasing Mary to know how deeply her husband had cared for her. For him, the exercise didn't seem helpful, if anything he felt a certain petty anger rising toward the man. Knowing how lovely things had been at a time when he had been lucky to get odd jobs in dusty villages from suspicious Germans didn't ease his mind in the slightest. Then…

"It's my birthday. Or rather, his birthday. It's his birthday and everyone is celebrating, even Mother and I can see by her expression that she's seeing Matthew and not me. We've dropped any pretense of my prior life. I realized this morning as Mary woke me by murmuring my name and how much she loves me that I haven't thought of my old name in months. I have a beautiful wife, I have a wonderful family. I don't deserve it. I'm exactly what my father always called me when he was drunk and striking me. I'm a cuckoo bird in the nest. I was never his son and he knew it. When I dream as a boy that one day, I'd find my real family, I never suspected how cruelly I would receive that wish. Everyone loved Matthew so, and here I am, the cuckoo bird in the nest, taking all the love and affection that he deserves and sometimes I just want to scream the truth at them. And I don't. I don't because I am a coward, first and foremost. I would be arrested and jailed as a spy. Worse, mother would be arrested and shamed for the crime of sparing me. Dear Mary would be humiliated, the entire family would be mocked. How I wish Matthew was here to ask advice, I suspect he was cleverer than I. I feel as though if he was here, that he would find me a cowardly mess. What I would give for him to arise from the anonymous grave he no doubt lies in to come and take back what I have stolen from him." Matthew closed the book carefully.

"Are you all right?" Mary asked it gently.

"I am. But perhaps we shouldn't do this." He let his hand rest upon the journal. "I don't feel right, reading his thoughts about me."

Mary eyed him, her expression careful. "Are you bothered by his guilt?"

"Aren't you?" Matthew shot back, hoping to deflect her.

Mary shook her head, a slight smile coming to her face. "I assumed he would write about feeling guilty because I remember how he was about Lavinia and her father's money, and this is much worse." She put her own hand over his, letting her fingers caress the leather journal cover as well as his hand. "It occurs to me how lonely he must have been. He didn't even have your mother to talk to from the sound of it."

And that was something that struck. He reopened the book, and read the line again, and flipped back to some prior entries, entries that didn't state things so boldly. "He was concerned about Mother, that she… didn't really see him as a different person." He closed it again. "She says that's not true but…"

"But I think it was true." Mary leaned back against the sofa, her expression pensive. "I don't deny that I have played the game of 'what should I have noticed' more than once since you returned to us, but truth be told, there's not much to find. You are more serious, but in most ways, the two of you were very much alike."

"I don't…" He stopped himself before he said his ugly thought aloud.

"You don't want to be like him," Mary finished for him. "And yet you're stubbornly denying it and that Crawley stubbornness is something all three of us share in spades." She tapped the journal again. "I agree with him. I wish you'd returned while he was alive so he could ask your forgiveness the way he wanted to, but that wasn't my thought. There was something… a difference. A difference that I think confirms his fear that your mother allowed the fantasy that you were here alive consume her, at least for a time."

"And what, pray tell, was that difference?" Matthew encouraged. If nothing else, he told himself, I think Mary and I are comfortable friends again."

Mary looked at him, her eyes filled with concern. "At the holidays, New Years I think, he turned to your mother and said 'happy holidays, Mama'. Or happy Christmas or happy new years."

"That doesn't seem shocking." Matthew wondered where she was going.

Mary raised an eye brow. "Have you ever, as an adult, called your mother anything but Mother?"

He considered. "I suppose not," he conceded, "but aside from catching my twin brother in an apparently rare error, I don't see why you find it interesting."

"Because… because your mother was shocked." Mary seemed oddly taken by the memory. "It was just for an instant, it was like she suddenly remembered something. And then she was wishing him well and it was over…" She suddenly crossed her arms. "Drat it, I don't know about you, but I find myself feeling sorry for your mother. Despite wanting to tear her limb from limb. I can't help but think of what I would do if George had been a twin and his brother taken, only to be returned." She smiled suddenly. "And look at me, this was supposed to help you and instead it soothes me and upsets you."

"It hasn't upset me," Matthew reassured. "Or rather, it has… but perhaps in a way that I needed. I don't want to read any more today." He handed the journal to her. "It is a good idea for us to do this but I think we need to take this slowly."

"You're right," Mary said. She stood quickly. "He didn't write this in a day." She seemed to shake off her concern and smiled brightly at him. "Shall I return tomorrow?"

"Of course," Matthew agreed. In an odd way, it pleased him to have a reason to see Mary. He had much to think about. That his mother had slipped into the fantasy that his twin brother was really him was concerning but also oddly, a relief. So was knowing that Marcus Crawley wasn't entirely comfortable or happy with taking over his life. "But perhaps more of a lunch date than breakfast?"


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn't going to do. Edith wondered if anyone participating in the farce even realized that. No, she thought as Mary rose from the breakfast table with a smile and a quick notice to all that she was off to check on Cousin Matthew, Mary is too lost in the fantasy that Matthew's return lent itself to. Tom was next to useless as well, for similar reasons. The imposter, Matthew's twin brother, had made a friend of Tom. A close friend, which meant Tom was both filled with guilt and with the longing to have such a friend back. Made worse, Edith was certain, by the reality that Matthew was, underneath his current anger, a genuinely friendly fellow and no snob, so the two of them were likely to be fast friends.

She was glad to have Matthew back, the real Matthew. Sybil was the smartest of the Crawley sisters, Edith had meant it when she said it to Tom but in working on the newspaper, she was coming to understand that she was close behind. She hadn't realized it until Matthew's return from Africa, but she had noticed something different about the man they all thought was Matthew. The real Matthew had been a friend, the gentle older brother she had always longed for. He had always treated her with respect, as though she was someone worth listening to.

Marcus Crawley, or Jupp Von Rostenberg, she sometimes wondered what name he preferred, had been… pleasant but distant. She had been hurt, truth be told, it had been a struggle accepting that he had somehow gone from close friend to acquaintance. She had blamed the war, it was easy to blame changes in men on the war, and Mary, who was prone to jealousy. With Matthew back, she understood what had really happened, that Marcus had held himself distant because he was afraid of being caught. Her own small bit of peace in the whole mess was realizing she hadn't somehow ruined yet another relationship by doing something stupid.

But the current situation was untenable. It was all well and good to let Matthew have some breathing room but the unpleasant reality was that the secret would come out. It was hardly well hidden to begin with. It hadn't taken much serious digging on the part of her paper's research staff to find the birth records, and the sad story of a child stolen away from loving English parents in Johannesburg. There was no possible way that Sir Richard Carlisle hadn't done the same research. She wasn't a fool, and she had learned enough of the newspaper business to know that Carlisle had something up his sleeve if he wasn't printing the story. That was a risk, because whoever put the story out first would get the most sales and Sir Richard certainly wasn't one to sacrifice profit.

She bided her time and waited for Mary to return from her now daily walk to Matthew's to engage her own plan. She even had an excuse if needed, she had found several of Matthew's friends from school and the war who had seen the news and were anxious to reconnect. Any conversation about revealing the secret needed to begin with the person affected most. That was Matthew.

He was, much to her amusement, in front of his small cottage, working himself into a lather chopping wood. She watched for a moment, not wanting to startle him from his work, and then coughed into her hand to get his attention. For just an instant, he looked startled but then he smiled broadly at her as he set down the hatchet. "Edith, how lovely!" Then he gave her a sly, conspiratorial look. "Did Mary send you to double check on me? I promise I haven't taken ill in the last two hours since Mary left."

"Am I not allowed to come and visit my favorite cousin?" she responded brightly. It had been a joke between them, that he was her favorite cousin in part because he was her only cousin.

He grinned, clearly amused. "Of course." He waved her towards the cottage and held open the door for her. "Please be welcome in my humble abode, Cousin Edith."

Much as she suspected, Mary had made a charming well kept cottage sound like a horror show of poverty. As she sat down on one of the comfortable armchairs, she gestured to the warm, inviting room. "You know that Mary makes it sound like you're sleeping in a muddy hole in the ground when she describes this place."

"I'm quite aware of Mary's biases," Matthew agreed as he sat down, "but you must be fair. You're seeing this place after I brought in new armchairs, a new sofa and a genuinely lovely desk. It was a bit barer when I first moved in. What has you stopping by for a visit?"

She decided not to belabor the point. "I did come here with a purpose, Matthew. I'm sure you were told that I inherited ownership of a newspaper?" It occurred to her suddenly that he might genuinely not know that.

Fortunately, he nodded. "Robert mentioned it, although I didn't really follow the reasons why." His expression took on a more serious caste. "Why do I think you're here to discuss a story?"

"Not one I am planning on publishing," Edith reassured, "but yes. And I don't think it's a mystery to you what that story is."

Matthew sighed as he nodded. "You found out about my lost brother. Did Mary tell you? Wait, she mentioned you knew…"

"I'm quite amazed she didn't leave out the part where I confirmed what she and Tom were guessing at." Edith agreed. "Frankly, I assumed it had to be something like this when your return was announced. I had some research done and I was planning to tell Mary what I had found when I overheard her and Tom having the same suspicions about what the truth was." She wasn't sure how to phrase the next point delicately. "I know this is something that you likely don't want in the news but it's only a matter of time before someone else discovers this. I can hold the story from going out in my paper, and I suspect Sir Richard is doing the same."

Matthew leaned back against his chair, his expression pensive. "Sir Richard has been hinting about the issue as well." He smiled slightly. "Richard isn't terribly subtle. My sense is that he's known for some time but has some affection for me as a person. I'm not sure why. I've been little more than a chore for him."

"A chore that makes him money," Edith corrected. "This isn't why I came but it wouldn't hurt to make sure that Sir Richard is paying you fairly. I know you're not desperate for money in any way but you're not familiar with the publishing world. I'm no expert either but there's no reason for you to give away your life story."

Matthew's expression grew more affectionate. "I appreciate the concern, Edith. Mostly because you remind me of who I was before the war, before Africa. You remind me that there was a time where I was a trusting fellow. Don't worry. Sir Richard is paying me fairly, to where if I had arrived penniless, I would now have more than a few pence to buy bread in my pockets. It hasn't escaped me that he's profiting from knowing me but to be honest…" And then he sighed. "I suppose it's wrong of me to like the fellow in part because he's one of the few people left in my life who I don't suspect of preferring my twin brother to me."

Edith couldn't help but laugh even though part of her couldn't help but register the underlying darkness of what he said. "Oh, Sir Richard couldn't stand your twin brother. They actually had a fist fight at the house. Over Mary. And I didn't prefer him over you." The words tumbled out without thinking. "When he came back from the war, with such severe injuries, he shut everyone out and we all thought we knew why, but once he recovered…" She struggled with how to say it. "You and I… we were friends. I thought of you like an older brother, that there was at least one person in this family that listened to me. But despite everything that happened with Lavinia and Sybil… he barely spoke to me." She shook her head. "I don't… want to sound petty about it. I know your situation pales in comparison."

"Yes, I win at suffering." Matthew smirked. "No one can compete. It's a gift that keeps on giving. If you get slapped in a fight, that's terrible but I was beaten with a truncheon and forced to go back to work. If you were ill, then remember that I almost died from eating spoiled zebra meat. If someone slights you at a party, why, I returned from years as a prisoner in Africa only to find out my hitherto unknown twin brother had taken my place, with actual approval from my mother."

He was teasing, in that he'd always had, that made her laugh but being older and wiser, she listened more carefully to the things he said. "Yes, you win the war of suffering, but that doesn't mean we don't all have our battles of pain." For a moment, the pain of leaving her baby daughter in Switzerland rose up in her, but she forced it back. "Your mother was in an impossible position; do you understand that?"

A flash of anger crossed his face but he masked it well. He leaned back on the sofa. "I don't. Can you explain it to me?"

A challenge. Not a surprise. Matthew had always challenged her to explain her position whenever she went to him for guidance or advice. It was a reminder of what she had missed and she hoped to help him with the bigger thing that was troubling him. "You make a show of how forgiving you are of everyone. Don't deny it. It's admirable in its way, except that you're using your forgiveness as a bludgeon to strike your mother with because you're so pointedly withholding it. Everyone else is allowed to be off the hook for not noticing but you won't forgive your mother."

"Because she knew exactly who he was." Matthew's tone held a note of correction that angered her.

"And what choice could she have made with that knowledge that would have helped you in any way?" Edith countered. "You forgave Papa for the same thing you won't forgive your mother for."

"She let him have my life." The underlying rage in his voice told her she was near the target if not directly on it.

"She did. And you don't see how she was making the best of a hideous situation. Or that your life wasn't such a lovely prize to receive." Edith waited a moment to let him consider it. "She lost her beloved son, Matthew. She found out you were severely wounded and rushed to be here and when she got here, she found out the hideous truth, that you were missing in action and most likely dead. And worse, the enemy soldier that took your place was her other son, her long lost son that she had grieved over and given up on. Yes, she let him continue pretending that he was you, yes, she let him have your life. But, when she made that decision, your life wasn't exactly a prize. He couldn't walk, he couldn't father children, it was quietly understood that he was likely to die within the next few years."

"Yes, I know this," Matthew growled. "But then he got better, didn't he? What about then?"

"Then they were both trapped in the lie." Edith waited a long moment. "This is how I know you're furious about it. You're so angry when if it wasn't you in the middle, you'd be arguing for compassion. They were trapped because whether or not he was your mother's son, he really was a German soldier who was guilty of spying against England. A terrible spy, but a spy, and Matthew, people were enraged against the Germans. People are still enraged with the Germans and frankly your story of being shipped off to a prison mine in Africa hasn't helped that." One story her paper was able to snare away from Sir Richard was the tracking down of the other prisoners Matthew had been imprisoned with. By all reports, including Matthew's, the men were dead but it was some comfort to their families to know what really happened to them. "If she revealed him as your brother, they both would have been arrested. What good would that have done?"

"It would have been honest," Matthew snapped. "Yes, the family would have been embarrassed at best, but you and I both know that your father would never have allowed them to jail my mother for that sort of lie. And yes, my brother would have been sent to prison but no doubt for a rather short sentence because he was now the only remaining heir to earldom. Lavinia would have been devastated but at least she wouldn't have been a day away from marrying a lie. And Mary would have at least known what she was getting into."

"You think far more highly of Papa than I do." Edith took a deep breath. "Papa is generally a kind man, I don't disagree with that, but he doesn't handle betrayal well. Or being made a fool of, and finding out that the mother of his distant cousin and heir made a fool of him, and his family, and worse, that you were really dead. Even worse, he'd be forced to save the German spy who'd made a fool of him because that spy was the last of the Crawley line. Lavinia is the only one who could have walked away unscathed." And then she chanced on something she suspected Matthew hadn't considered. "Mary would have married Sir Richard. Have you thought about that?"

His eyes widened, and Edith felt a surge of triumph. "I admit," he said carefully, "that hadn't occurred to me but…yes." He sounded relieved. "That would have been a terrible marriage. It was something that worried me, that she was engaged to a man I didn't even think she liked. Sir Richard feels in retrospect that he made a lucky escape."

The way he spoke of Mary gave her pause. "Matthew, I'm no longer a girl and I find that sometimes speaking plainly and bluntly allows us to stop dancing around things we should be talking about. Mary has been coming here every day. I don't pretend to know my sister's heart and I don't pretend that we're close friends as well as sisters but… she is my sister, and in many ways, this has been incredibly difficult and I don't want her hurt further." She waited a moment to let him collect himself. "Do you still love Mary?"

Matthew hesitated and she was amused to see a blush to his cheeks. "Yes. Yes, I still love Mary. But…" He looked down at his hands. "I don't know if I can put to words the misgivings I feel about it. We are very different people and… I know that Mary and I can be good friends again, and I can love her as family but I don't know that I could ever get past the fact that she adored the man she married…"

"And you're not that man," Edith finished for him. She had wondered as much.

"I'm not that man." Matthew chuckled suddenly although she didn't think he found much mirth in the topic. "By all reports, he did a much better job of being me than I ever did." He shook his head ruefully. "I just… can't be that man, and I worry that the more time we spend together, the more I am encouraging something that isn't real."

"Or," Edith offered, "you're still in love with Mary and you're letting the same old insecurity drive you off. You didn't marry her before the war because she was a fool about the earldom. It's ten years later, and now you're worried she'll compare you to the man that broke her heart and find you lacking."

"Yes… and no." He sighed heavily. "I'm not worried about it, I know it is the truth. I don't want to hurt Mary but I think we're seeing each other as the people that we were and we're both trying too hard to ignore the dead man between us."

"Then be yourself with her, Matthew. Let her see those differences." Edith waved her hand toward the abbey. "You can't avoid the earldom, you will be the next Earl of Grantham but you don't have to be Papa. The world is changing and so is the estate and plenty of the landed gentry can't even afford this life anymore. Regardless of what you plan for your personal life, you will need to consider the earldom. You don't have to agree to whatever the family wants and it might do everyone some good to see that your ideas and plans for the estate aren't the same. Mary needs to see that an identical appearance isn't the same as an identical personality." She sniffed. "I wouldn't have called him her lap dog, he wasn't a weak man, but he allowed her to have her way far more than you ever would have. She needs to see that. And you need to realize she's a stronger woman than the one you left behind." Edith waited a long moment. "There is a dead man between you and her. You may not be able to get past it. She may find her guilt makes it too difficult, but neither of you will ever know if it could work if you both refuse to address it at all."

He eyed her, not with amusement but with a dawning respect she hadn't seen in years and she fought the urge to blush from the attention. Finally, he leaned back and asked, "What is your opinion on this, Edith?"

She almost didn't say it but then decided honesty was best. "I think it's unhealthy. I think there is a ghost between you, and whether we call him Marcus, or Matthew, or Jupp, a part of you, a small part but it is there, that would resent her marrying him. There's a part of her that would always feel guilty over it, and at the same time she would feel anger and resentment over how you'll never let it go. And as much as I think you do both love each other, that anger would grow because you're not your brother, you're altogether more openly stubborn and she's stubborn, and she did love her husband. I think you'd both try, and you'd make each other miserable."

Matthew considered her words. "I'm not sure why you just finished telling me to try, if you believe what you just said."

"Because you're both that stubborn and prone to locking horns, and if you don't try, you'll always regret it." Edith looked him in the eyes. "Tell me that you walked away from Mary before the war and never once regretted it or wished that you hadn't been so angry. You loved Lavinia, I don't doubt that, but you regretted not marrying Mary. And now, it's ten years later, and despite all of the awfulness, you and Mary are still in love. I have misgivings about it, I know you do as well, and believe me when I say Mary has misgivings. So, ignore my worries and concerns and try." She managed a smile. "It's rare that I want Mary to prove me wrong but I do wish that."

"I don't deserve your well wishing," Matthew said. "I had to do things… terrible things, to survive. I don't deserve your concern, neither does Mary, and certainly my mother doesn't." He took her hand and held it. "But I accept your advice and your good wishes. I will look in on my mother tomorrow and… attempt to see her side of things. As for Mary… I will try, but I admit that I find it challenging. We can hardly just pick up as though… as though there wasn't a dead man between us."

"I'm sure if you try, you can. And perhaps acknowledging him will allow his shade to find peace." Edith hoped so, but truth be told, she was more worried about the living than the dead.


End file.
